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A FIRST BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



FIRST BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY 



BY 
MARY WHITON CALKINS 



PRELIMINARY EDITION 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1909 

All rights reserved 



^^ 






Copyright, 1909, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909. 



ii5aA25.Ti'9i 



J. S. Cusliiiig Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



A FIRST BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY 




A FIRST BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY 
CHAPTER I 

INTRODUCTION: THE NATURE, METHODS, AND USES OF 
PSYCHOLOGY 

I. The Nature of Psychology 

Psychology may be defined provisionally as science of con- 
sciousness — of perception, memory, emotion, and the like. 
Many psychologists find this definition sufficient as it stands, 
but, in the view of the writer of this book, it does not go far 
enough. For consciousness does not occur impersonally. Con- 
sciousness, on the contrary, always is a somebody-being-con- 
scious. There is never perception without a somebody who 
perceives, and there never is thinking unless some one thinks. 
Bearing this fact in mind, we may define psychology more 
exactly by naming it science of the self as conscious.^ 

Either definition leads at once to a consideration of the 
meaning of the word ' science.' The scientist is distinguished 
from the ordinary observer in that he describes exactly and, 
if possible, explains the objects which both observe. Exact 
description includes, first, analysis and, second, classificat^oti 
through observed likenesses and differences; explanation 
consists in linking one fact to allied facts of its own or of 
another order. A scientist, for example, and an unscientific 

1 Cf. Appendix, Section I. (§ i). Throughout the book these numerical 
exponents, beginning anew in each chapter and not always consecutive, 
refer to the divisions (§§) of a section in the Appendix numbered to cor- 
respond with the given chapter. 



2 A First Book in Psychology 

observer pick up, each, a stone from the roadside. The 
latter will tell you that he has found a big, smooth, gray 
stone. The former describes his stone as a smoothed and 
striated boulder of granite, rich in mica, and explains it as 
dropped from some glacier. Similarly, the unscientific ob- 
server of consciousness tells you that he better remembers 
Booth's Hamlet than Patti's Lucia. His psychologically 
trained friend will describe the memory of Hamlet as a case of 
visual imagination, distinguishing it a-s more intense than the 
auditory imagination of Patti's singing; and will explain the 
difference as due to the fact that he has been trained to draw, 
whereas he does not know one note from another. In a word, 
the scientist in each of these cases first describes phenomena, 
that is, observes them analytically, compares, and classifies 
them ; and he next seeks, if he can, to explain phenomena — in 
these cases, the stone by the roadside and the vivid memory. 

This attempt to distinguish science from everyday observa- 
tion must be followed by an effort to mark off science from 
philosophy, for the psychologist, it must be confessed, is 
sometimes tempted to overstep the border. In brief, the 
distinction is this : philosophy seeks to discover the ultimate 
or irreducible nature of any (or of all) reality, whereas a 
science voluntarily limits itself to one group of facts, takes for 
granted the existence of coordinate groups, and does not seek 
c: reduce one to the other or both to any deeper kind of reality. 
The philosopher, for example, asks whether mind is a func- 
tion of matter, or matter an expression of mind, or whether 
both are manifestations of a more ultimate reality, whereas 
the psychologist takes for granted, on the basis of ordinary 
observation, that minds and material objects exist. 

Psychology has been defined as science of the self-being- 



The Nature of Psychology 3 

conscious; and we rightly therefore ask for a further de- 
scription, even if only a preliminary description, of the self. 
The conscious self of each one of us is not a reality which is 
merely inferred to exist: it is immediately experienced as 
possessed of at least four fundamental characters. The 
self as immediately experienced is (i) relatively persistent ^- 
in other words, I am in some sense the same as my childhood 
self; is (2) complex — I am a perceiving, remembering, 
feeling, willing self; is (j) a unique, an irreplaceable self ^^ 
I am closely like father, brother, or friend, but I am, after all, 
only myself : there is only one of me. The self is experienced 
finally (4) as related to objects which are either personal or 
impersonal. For example, I am fond of my mother (relation 
to a personal object) and I am tasting an orange (relation to 
an impersonal object). 

As the last sentences have indicated, a person or an imper- 
sonal fact, to which the self is related, is called its object — 
that of which it is conscious.^ And every such object, 
whether personal or impersonal, may be further distinguished 
as either private or public (common) object. The com- 
mon, or public, personal object of any self is some other self. 
For example. President Taft, as he greets me at a White 
House reception, is iny personal object — but my common, 
not my private or peculiar object, since the sight of him 
is shared by all the other people in the line behind me. 
When, on the other hand, I am conscious of myself as, for 
instance, enchanted to meet the President — I am my own 
personal and private object; that is to say, I am conscious 
of myself in a peculiar way in which no one else is conscious 
of me. Within the class, also, of impersonal objects a dis- 
tinction may be made between private and common objects. 



4 A First Book in Psychology 

that is, between {a) my experiences — my feelings, for example 
— regarded as peculiarly mine and (h) impersonal objects 
of anybody's consciousness, such as chemical formulae and 
sidewalks. And there is, finally, the important distinction 
between externalized and non-externalized impersonal ob- 
jects. Thus, the sidewalk is an externalized object, that is, 
it is conceived as if independent of any and of all selves. 
On the other hand, neither my feeling, a private impersonal 
object, nor the chemical formula, a common object, is ex- 
ternalized. Rather, each is realized as experience — the feel- 
ing as the experience which one self has, the formula as the 
common experience of many selves. It should be added that 
I am always, inattentively or attentively, conscious of the 
private, personal object, myself, whatever the other objects 
of my consciousness. 

The distinctions which the last paragraphs have made may 
be summarized in the following way : — 

A/r , If ;= S related to \ Objects 

(as subject) < ^°^^^^°^^ "^ i ^'^^^'f^ ^'^ 



I I 

Personal Impersonal 



I 1 . i ^1 

Common Private Private Public 

'I II ■ II (common) 



Other Selves Myself My experiences Non-externalized, Externalized, 
(as object) (as mine) Laws, etc. Things 

II 11 ' 11 II 

Topic of Topic of 

Social Sciences Psychology 



Topics of Topic of Topics of 

Psychological Sciences Logic, Mathematics, etc. Physical 

(Geisteswissenschaflen) Science 

The establishment of these distinctions between objects of 
consciousness serves thus to differentiate groups of sciences. 
It appears that psychology deals with 'private objects,' pri- 
marily with my particular, intimately known 'own self,' but 



The Nature of Psychology 5 

also with percepts, thoughts, and feelings as they appear to me 
and to nobody else. The concern of sociology on the other 
hand is with selves as common, or universal, phenomena, 
objects of anybody's consciousness; and logic and mathe- 
matics deal with thoughts — with arithmetical rules and 
logical axioms, for example — which are public property, 
parts of common experience. Sharply distinguished from 
all these are the physical sciences which concern themselves 
with externalized objects — with plants, animals, stones, acids, 
falling bodies. Psychology, to be sure, since its object — 
the self — is related to objects of every sort, takes account of 
all these objects of the other sciences; that is to say, I — as 
psychologist — study myself as related to other self, to uni- 
versal principle or thought, and to external object; but 
psychology has to do with all these objects not in themselves 
but only in relation to the 'myself.' Sometimes, indeed, the 
word ' object ' is narrowed so as to apply only to impersonal 
objects of one class or another, and not to the self. 

It must be pointed out that certain real difficulties at- 
tend this classification of the self's objects. There is, 
first, the difficulty of conceiving the self as both subject 
and object. And there is, second, the difficulty involved 
in conceiving the 'thing,' the externahzed object, as in- 
dependent of all selves, when yet the self is related to it 
and conscious of it. But both these are difficulties only for 
the metaphysician. The psychologist who, like every scien- 
tist, must accept certain facts, without looking for their ulti- 
mate explanation, rests in the first case on the immediate 
certainty that I am conscious of myself. He avoids the sec- 
ond difficulty in that he does not assert that external objects, 
independent of all selves, really exist. He teaches merely 



6 A First Book in Psychology 

that, in perceiving, one uncritically assumes the existence 
of such independent objects. 

This account, brief as it is, of the self as related, provides 
the outline for our study of psychology. The chapters which 
follow will develop these distinctions. They will include also 
some attempt to explain these facts of psychology; and in 
the effort to explain they will range beyond the domain 
of psychology proper and will look for facts of physics, of 
biology, and of physiology, for phenomena of vibration, of 
adaptation, of anatomical structure, with which to link the 
psychic changes. 

II. Thp Methods of Psycjiology 

The methods of psychology are, in general, the two meth- 
ods of every science : description (that is, analysis and classi- 
fication) and explanation. But besides these fundamental 
forms of procedure, every science has certain methods pe- 
culiar to itself; and the method which distinguishes psy- 
chology is that of introspection. This follows directly from 
what has been said of the subject-matter of psychology. 
Its facts are not the common, independent, externalized facts 
of the physical sciences, but the inner facts, selves, and ideas. 
To observe the psychic fact one has not, therefore, to sweep 
the heavens with a telescope, nor to travel about in search of 
rare geological formations ; but one has merely to ask oneself 
such questions as: "How do I actually feel?" ''What do 
I mean when I say that I perceive, remember, believe?" 

The method has obvious advantages. It makes no especial 
conditions of time and place; it requires no mechanical ad- 
junct; it demands no difficult search for suitable material; 
at any moment, in all surroundings, with no external outfit, 



The -Methods of Psychology 7 

oiie may study the rich material provided by every imaginable 
experience. In an extreme sense, all is grist that comes to 
the psychologist's mill. The apparent facility of introspec- 
tion is, however, one of its greatest dangers. Nothing seems 
easier than to render to ourselves a true account of what goes 
on in our conscioiisness. We are tempted, therefore, to over- 
look the need of training in introspection and to minimize 
its characteristic difficulties. Chief among these is the 
change which it makes in its own object. To attend to a 
particular experience actually alters it. If I ask myself in 
the midst of a hearty laUgh, "Just what is this feeling of 
amusement?" forthwith the feeling has vanished, and a 
^tfehuous, serious mo©d ha§ taken its place. Much the same 
is true of every form of consciousness. To observe myself 
perceiving, remembering, or judging is no longer simply to 
perceive, to remember, and to judge, but to reflect upon 
perception, memory, and judgment. It is true, therefore, as 
many psychologists hsLVe shown, that introspection is never 
of 'the immediate present, but is rather a case of memory, 
atid subject, therefore, tci &;11 the uncertainties of memory. 

The verification of otif introspection is best secured by 
afl important sub§idiafy ficiithod shared by psychology with 
maliy §f the physic&l seieiices — the method of experiment. 
To experiment is to regulate artificially the conditions of 
phenomena in such wise as to repeat, to isolate, and to vary 
them at will. In a multitude of ways, therefore, experiment 
aids scientific observation. Repetition of phenomena insures 
accuracy of Analysis,- and rliakes it possible to verify the re- 
sults of a single obsef vatio'li j isolation of conditions narrows 
the object of study, afid g>voids the distraction of the ob- 
s€fv6t's attention; and, filially, variation of conditions makes 



8 A First Book in Psychology 

it possible to explain a phenomenon exactly, by connecting 
it with those conditions only which it always accompanies. 
But because psychic facts differ from physical phenpmena 
in that they can never be repeated or exactly measured, 
psychological experiment directly concerns itself with the 
physical stimulation of psychic facts and with the physical 
reactions to these stimuli. For example, though I cannot 
measure the vividness of a memory image, I can count the 
number of repetitions of a series of words which I read aloud 
to the person on whom I experiment ; and I can compare the 
number of errors he makes in repeating the word-series when 
he has heard it once only, three times, or five times. In this 
way I can gain, experimentally, a conclusion about the rela- 
tion of memory to frequency of experience, and by repeating 
the experiment many times with the same individual and with 
others, I may arrive at some trustworthy general conclusion. 

III. The Forms or Psychology 

This chapter has so far dealt, as this book will mainly 
deal, with the fundamental form of psychology — normal, 
introspective psychology, the scientific study of oneself being 
conscious. Based on this introspective study is a second 
important, though subsidiary, branch of the science, com- 
parative or inferential psychology, the science of inference 
from the structure or from the behavior of living organisms, 
human or merely animal, to the nature of other selves. The 
objects of normal comparative psychology are animals, chil- 
dren, and primitive men. Its methods are the careful obser- 
vation of the words or actions of the animals and people whom 
it studies, and the inference of the conscious experiences 
which underlie these outer manifestations. Such inference 



The Use of Psychology 9 

involves introspection, because it consists in attributing one's 
own experience, under given circumstances, to other selves; 
but this introspection, because imputed to others, has not the 
same value as the study of one's own consciousness. Yet 
comparative studies of structure and of behavior have use- 
fully directed introspection and have richly contributed to the 
explanatory side of psychology. The following summary 
enumerates these different forms of psychology : — 

A. Normal Psychology 
I. Introspective. 

Study of the normal adult self and its experiences. 
II. Inferential (Comparative). 

Study of the normal consciousness of 

a. Animals. 

b. Children. 

c. Primitive men. 

B. Abnormal Psychology 
I. Introspective. 

Study of the abnormal experiences of the normal self. 
II. Comparative 

a. Study of deficient and exceptional selves. 
h. Study of mentally deranged selves. 

IV. The Use of Psychology 

A final question still calls for a provisional answer, the 
question : Of what special use is the study of psychology ? 
The technical psychologist may be tempted to ignore the 
question on the ground that it should never have been asked, 
that — rather — the student must assume at the outset the 
essential importance of all study, the vital significance of 
knowing anything. But the psychologist, in our sense of the 
term, has no need to take this ground. He studies the related 
self ; and human conduct is the active relation of self to other 



to A First Book in Psychology 

selves. A deeper acquaintance with my own nature may 
surely, therefore, have a significant influence on my behavior. 
True, the study of behavior as such belongs to ethics and to 
pedagogy rather than to psychology ; but in studying psychol- 
ogy one may keep in mind the bearing of the science upon 
practical problems. In more concrete terms : the study of 
psychology is practically useful in so far as it aids me, on 
the one hand, to preserve and to develop myself, and, on the 
other hand, effectively to influence my environment. 



CHAPTER II 
PERCEPTION AND IMAGINATION 

I. Perception and Imagination as Experiences of the 
Related Self 

What am I at this present moment ? I am a self, conscious 
of holding a blue celluloid pen, of looking down upon a white 
page, of hearing '' The Road to Mandalay " whistled by a man 
who is mowing beneath my window, conscious also of the 
fragrance of the freshly cut grass and the warmth of the day, 
and, all the while, imagining a Tyrolese mountain landscape 
which I have never seen. I am, in other words, a perceiving 
and imagining self, and though this is certainly no exhaustive 
account of me, still I may well attempt no more, at this stage 
of my psychologizing, than the close description and the ex- 
planation of perception and imagination, the experiences so 
far enumerated in the self of the present.* 

It will be convenient to begin with the analysis of perception. 
I notice first that in perceiving pen, paper, and tune I am 
directly aware of a certain inevitableness and involuntariness 
in the experience. I must see and touch just this pen ; I can- 

* Before reading further, and without consulting any book, the student 
should state, in writing, all the likenesses and the differences which he can 
observe between (i) his experience as he perceives the desk (or rug, or hat) 
at which he is looking, and (2) his experience as he imagines a similar desk 
(rug, or hat) in some other room. The record of this introspection may 
profitably be compared with that of other students. 



12 A First Book in Psychology 

not help feeling warm; I must hear this tune and must smell 
the odor of the falling grass. I may wish that I held a silver 
pen, that I were cool, not warm, that I were smelling roses 
instead of hay ; but I am bound down, in my perceiving, to 
precisely this experience. I am, in a word, directly conscious 
of myself as receptive. And this direct consciousness of 
receptivity, prominent in my perception, is wanting to my 
imagination. In some sense, at least, my imaginings are 
under my own control. In the present case, for example, I 
can turn from the inner contemplation of the mountain 
view to the imagining — let us say — of the prosaic interior 
of a German psychological laboratory. 

A second significant difference between perceiving and 
imagining is revealed not of necessity during the perception, 
but as I reflect on it or look back on it. To such reflective 
observation it is evident that my perception has been shared, 
or at any rate that it might have been shared, by other selves ; 
whereas I need not, unless I will, share my imaginings. For 
example, the housemaid dusting the room can see my blue 
pen and white paper, can hear the whistled melody, and smell 
the hay and feel the warmth. But the housemaid does not 
share my imagination of the Tyrolese mountains any more 
than I read the imagination which has brought a smile to her 
lips. People share our imaginings in a sense, when they try 
to reproduce them, yet, evidently, the world of imagination 
has a privacy foreign to the common world of our perceptions. 

From this privacy of imagination follows a third difference. 
It is this : perception is reflectively regarded as my conscious- 
ness of relation to an external or ' independent' object, whereas 
the object of imagination, though impersonal, is not exter- 
nalized. The object of perception is thus, from the point of 



Perception and Imagination 13 

view of the psychologist, the external pen or mowing-machine, 
whereas the object of imagination is no external object, but 
rather the mere image of landscape or of harmony. 

Three differences have thus been emphasized as distin- 
guishing perception from imagination: (i) my immediately 
realized receptivity, or passivity, in perceiving; (2) the re- 
flectively realized community of my perception with the 
experience of other selves ; (3) my relation in perception to 
an object which I regard as independent and external. But 
these distinctions must not obscure the likenesses. Percep- 
tion resembles imagination in at least three ways, (i) Both 
are known (to reflection, if not immediately) as impersonal 
consciousness, in the sense that in perceiving and imagin- 
ing I am not predominantly conscious of selves. I perceive 
or imagine pen, paper, tune, but I do not perceive or 
imagine you or myself. In the second place, (2) both per- 
ception and imagination are forms of particularizing con- 
sciousness. I do not, for example, perceive or imagine pens 
in general, or even the class of celluloid pens, but rather this 
particular, individual pen. A final, highly important like- 
ness of perception and imagination is the following : (3) Both 
are chiefly sensational experiences concerned with vision, 
touch, and hearing rather than with feeling or with the con- 
sciousness of relation. This consideration will lead us to a 
psychological analysis different from that already attempted. 
It is expedient, therefore, to summarize our results. Percep- 
tion has been described as sensational, passive, impersonal, 
externalizing, and particularizing consciousness reflectively 
realized as common to other selves. Imagination has been 
described as sensational, impersonal, and particularizing, 
but as lacking the consciousness of passivity, of externality. 



14 A First Book in Psychology 

and of community. To the detailed study of perception 
and imagination as sensational we must now turn. 

II. Perception and Imagination as Sensational 

The conscious self is, as we have seen, persistent, unique, 
related, and complex. If now we arbitrarily drop out of ac- 
count the persistence, the uniqueness, and even the related- 

ness, we are still conscious of complexity. The mental 

• 
reduction of this complex experience to its lowest terms gives 

what are called the structural elements of consciousness. 
These apparently irreducible constituents seem to fall into 
three main classes which have been called 'sensational' 
(or 'substantive')*; (2) 'attributive' (sometimes called by 
the name of the chief subclass ' affective ' elements) ; and 
(3) 'relational.' To illustrate from the experience which we 
are studying: My consciousness of hlueness is a sensational 
element ; my consciousness of the unpleasantness of the warm 
day is an affective element ; and, finally, my consciousness of 
the contrast between the blue of the pen handle and the 
blue of my account-book coyer is a relational experience. It 
is evident that my experiences may be distinguished according 
as one or other of these elemental kinds of consciousness pre- 
dominates ; and it is equally evident that, from this point of 
view, perception and imagination are both chiefly sensational 
in character, distinguished mainly as the consciousness of 
colors, sounds, and fragrances. 

Between perception and imagination as sensational com- 
plexes three further distinctions may ordinarily be made. 
If I close my eyes, and then imagine the oval gilt frame 

* On all this, cf. Appendix, Section III., § 29 ff. 



Perception and Imagination 15 

which stands on my desk, and if I then reopen my eyes and 
compare perception with imagination, I shall find that the im- 
agination differs from the perception, first, in that it is sensa- 
tionally less intense — the gilt of the imaged frame is duller ; 
second, in that it is less complex — I lack altogether the con- 
sciousness of certain details of the frame ; and finally, in that 
it is more evanescent, more readily displaced by other imag- 
inings. And yet there are cases of imagination which lack one 
or more of these characteristics. The perception of one's 
bodily attitude, for example,, may be less intense, less accurate, 
and less permanent than the visual imagination of a face or 
the auditory imagination of a melody ; one's perception of an 
unknown substance, which one merely tastes or smells, may 
be less vivid, also, than one's visual imagination of a bowl 
of strawberries or of a roasted duck. All this proves that 
intensity, detail, and stability are merely common and not 
necessary characteristics of perception. Indeed, the only 
invariable distinctions are those enumerated in the preceding 
section of this chapter. 

In perception and in imagination alike, my sensational 
experiences are of different sorts : I see, hear, smell, and touch. 
And one way of classifying both perception and imagination 
is according to predominant sense-elements. Such a classi- 
fication is, however, of most significance as applied to imagi- 
nation, for, as has appeared, my imagination is in some degree 
controllable ; and I may therefore make practical use of the 
discovery that my imagination is chiefly visual or auditory. 
In what follows we shall study imagination as sensational, 
but we must remind ourselves that all the distinctions which 
are made are equally, though less fruitfully, applicable to 
perception. 



1 6 A First Book in Psychology 

Concrete imagination — that is to say, the imagination of 
things, scenes, and events — must, in the first place, be dis- 
tinguished from merely verbal imagination. Concrete imagi- 
nation may belong to any sense-order, but it is in the main 
either visual, auditory, or tactual; or else it belongs to a 
'mixed' type, including elements of several kinds. Every 
student of psychology should undertake an introspective 
study of the sense-type of his imagination by the use of some 
such questionary as the following : * — 

a. In imagining a pink rose, 

1. {a) Do you see its color and the green of its leaves? 

{h) Are the pink and green as vivid as those of a real rose? 

2. {a) Can you see its shape? 

{h) Is it as distinctly outlined as the objects now before you on 
the table? 

3. Can you smell it? 

4. Can you feel the smoothness of its petals and leaves? 

5. Can you feel the coolness of its petals and leaves? 

6. Can you feel the prick of its thorns? 

h. In thinking of the words of "My Country, 'tis of thee," 

1. Can you see them printed? 

2. Can you hear yourself say them? 

3. Can you hear yourself sing them? 

4. Can you feel yourself form the words in your throat and with 

your lips and tongue? 

5. Can you hear the organ play ''America"? 

c. Arrange the following experiences in order of the distinctness {i.e. 
clearness or vividness) with which you can remember (or imagine) 
them : — 

1. A triangle drawn with black lead on white paper. 

2. A plane surface of lemon-yellow. 

3. The hum of a mosquito. 

4. The crack of a whip. 

* Condensed from a questionary formulated by Professor Gamble and 
used in the Wellesley College Laboratory since 1898-1899. These questions 
should be answered, in writing, before the student reads further. 



Sense-types of Imagination 17 

5. The 'feel' of soap. 

6. The 'feel' of dough. 

7. The heat of a hot plate. 

8. The smell of peppermint. 

9. The smell of onion. 
10. The taste of salt. 

It is obvious that one who 'sees' the pink and green and 
shape of the rose has a visual imagination, and that visual 
imaginations differ according as colors or forms are more 
distinctly visualized. The person with auditory imagination 
can ' hear ' the sound of the organ and the crack of the whip ; 
and, in similar fashion, the other types of concrete imagination 
are tested by these questions. It should be noted that, in 
many experiences, visual imagination supplements the per- 
ception of pressure and of sound, as when we 'localize' a 
touch by imagining the look of wrist or of forehead, on 
which it falls, or imagine the puffing red motor-car at sound 
of its bell. 

There is no character in which individuals differ more 
widely than in the prevailing sense-type of their imagination. 
In recalling, for example, the balcony scene in " Romeo and 
Juliet," some people see with the eye of the mind the shadowy 
form of Romeo and the figure of Juliet, clear-cut against the 
lighted window, the ' stony limits,' the cypresses, statues, and 
fountains of the Italian garden, and the "blessed moon . . . 
that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops " ; others, like 
Juliet, may ''know the sound of that tongue's utterance," 
and may hear, in imagination, Romeo's deep-voiced love- 
making and the "silver-sweet sound" of Juliet's replies "like 
softest music to attending ears." Still others, finally, may 
image Romeo's movements as "with love's light wings" 
he "did o'erperch these walls." 



1 8 A First Book in Psychology 

The study of an imaginative writer often reveals the pre- 
dominant sense-order of his imagination. His pages may 
glow with color or thrill with music or quiver with rhythmic 
motion. The blind poet, Philip Bourke Marston, for exam- 
ple, describes a garden ravaged by "winds in the night, 
without pity or pardon," in verses which contain no color- 
word, though they make mention of the garden's ' scent and 
sound,' and are full of striking images of pressure and of 
cold : — 

''All my song birds are dead in their bushes — 
Woe for such things ! 
Robins and hnnets and blackbirds and thrushes 
Dead, with stiff wings. 

"Oh, my dead birds! each in his nest there, 
So cold and stark; 
What was the horrible death that pressed there 
When skies were dark? 

"What shall I do foY my roses' sweetness 
The Summer round — 
For all my Garden's divine completeness 
Of scent and sound? 

This colorless garden stands in sharp contrast to Shelley's 
forest, swept by the 

"... wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red." 

Sometimes, indeed, a poet's lines seem to disclose to us 
his peculiar delight in special colors or sounds. So Shelley, 
once more, seems most readily to imagine the greens and 



Sense-types of Imagination 19 

blues and purples of nature. He looks off upon wide land- 
scapes, and 

" Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy." 

He looks downward, from his boat, and sees 

"... the deep's untrampled floor 
With green and purple sea-weeds strown. " 

He looks outward to far horizons and 

"Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might." 

He does not see the '' legion'd rooks " who '' hail " the rising 
sun as black, but compares 

" — their plumes of purple grain 
Starr'd with drops of golden rain " 

to clouds '' fleck'd with fire and azure." Even his gardens 
are full of "tender blue bells," of ''flowers azure, black, 
and streak'd with gold," and of ''broad fiag-fiowers, purple 
prank'd with white." 

The most common type of concrete imagination probably 
is the visual, for, in spite of individual differences, most people 
can imagine objects in some vague outline and in some dull 
color. Every sculptor, painter, or architect who sees his vision 
before he embodies it has visual imagination. The inventor 
also 'sees' his engine or his dynamo in all its parts and con- 
nections, before he enters upon the actual construction of it ; 
and the well-dressed woman sees the end from the beginning, 
the completed gown within the shapeless fabric. Above all, 
visual imagination is the ?indowment of the geometer and of 
the scientist. The one imagines the projections and inter- 
sections of lines and planes; the other beholds the planets 



20 A First Book in Psychology 

moving in their courses, peoples the earth with the forms 
of animals long extinct, or makes of every common object 
a palpitating dance of atoms and subatoms. Even a poet's 
imagination may hesitate before the challenging hypotheses 
of science, for it is said that Wordsworth once exclaimed, 
"I have not enough imagination to become a geologist." 

Yet in spite of the value of visual images to artists, inventors, 
and mathematicians, it must at once be acknowledged that, 
even to them, the visual type of imagination is not indispen- 
sable, but that it may be replaced by what we know as the 
tactual-motor type, the imaging of the movements by which 
one traces the outlines of figures or of designs. Galton 
found, as result of careful inquiry, that "men who declare 
themselves entirely deficient in the power of seeing mental 
pictures — can become painters of the rank of Royal Acade- 
micians." And James says of himself, ''I am a good 
draughtsman and have a very lively interest in pictures, 
statues, architecture, and decoration, and a keen sensibility 
to artistic effects. But I am an extremely poor visualizer, 
and find myself often unable to reproduce in my mind's eye 
pictures which I have most carefully examined." * In these 
cases, a quickness to recognize and to discriminate colors 
and forms is combined with the inability to imagine them. 
Evidently, visual imagination is here replaced by pressure 
imagination — imagination of the motions necessary to the 
production of sculpture, machine, or figure : a sculptor of this 
type reproduces in imagination the movements of his chisel, 
and the geometrician draws his figure or indicates by imaged 
movements the sweep of orbits and the intersection of lines. 

Kiilpe discovered, experimentally, the same lack of visual 

* The "Principles of Psychology," Vol. II., p. 53. 



Sense-types of Imagination 21 

imagination.* He tested the color-imagery of several stu- 
dents by pronouncing in a darkened room the names of colors 
and requiring them to describe the resulting experiences. 
One of these young men proved utterly incapable, with the 
strongest effort, of imagining any color whatever. Another 
historic example is Charcot's patient, a man whose visual 
imagery was impaired through nervous disease. "Asked to 
draw an arcade, he says, ' I remember that it contains semi- 
circular arches, that two of them meeting at an angle make 
a vault, but how it looks I am absolutely unable to imagine.' 
. . . He complains of his loss of feeling for colors. 'My 
wife has black hair, this I know; but I can no more recall 
its color than I can her person and features !' " f 

The auditory type of imagination is unquestionably less 
common than the visual, and it is almost always closely com- 
bined with imagery of the motor-tactual sort. It is the image- 
type of the great musicians, of Beethoven, for example, who 
composed his symphonies when totally unable to hear a note 
of them. But though less significant to most of us than the 
visual images, the concrete auditory imagination belongs, at 
least in some degree, to all people who are able to recall 
voices and melodies. The prevalence of auditory imagery 
is suggested by the ordinary ruse of violin players, who pro- 
duce the effect of a diminuendo, lengthened beyond the actual 
sound, by continuing the drawing motion of the bow when it 
no longer touches the string. 

The most significant type of tactual (or pressure) imagina- 
tion is frequently called the tactual-motor type — the imagi- 
nation of the pressures, often internal, which are originally 

* "Outlines of Psychology," Section 27, 9. 
t Cf. James, op. cit., Vol. II., p. 59. 



22 A First Book in Psychology 

due to bodily movements; the imagination, for example, 
of one's shortened breath as one is running. Imagination 
may be, also, of some other dermal sense-type, that is, of 
pain, of warmth, or of cold. Such experiences are perhaps 
rare, but they unquestionably occur. Keats, for example, 
vividly images the coldness of 

" a draught of vintage, that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth." 

One must carefully distinguish between such imagining 
and the corresponding peripherally aroused sensation. The 
vivid account of a wound or a physical injury may excite, 
through the connection of cortical neurones through motor 
neurones with organic reactions, the actual, visceral pressure- 
sensations which constitute the feeling of faintness, and it 
may even excite the pain end-organs. In the same way, 
I grow actually hot over a remembered mortification and I 
shiver with cold at a revived fear. 

Smell and taste imagination are relatively infrequent and 
their occurrence is, indeed, often denied. It is said that when 
we imagine objects fragrant in themselves, such as roses or 
cheese or coffee, we imagine their look or their feel without 
imagining their odor; and that when we suppose ourselves 
to imagine tastes, we are really imagining the colors and the 
forms of food. It will be admitted that from our dream 
dinners we are apt to wake before tasting anything, and that 
poetic descriptions of banquets dwell chiefly on the color of 
'dusky loaf of 'golden yolks' and 'lucent syrops,' and on the 
texture of 'fruit . . . rough or smooth rined' or of 'jellies 
soother than the creamy curd ' ! Yet no one will deny that 
the poet must have imagined odors, and not colors , when he 
writes in the fifth stanza of the '' Ode to a Nightingale" : — 



Sense-types of Imagination 23 

'I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild; 



And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine." 

Besides this unintended evidence from imaginative writers 
we have well-attested instances of the smell and taste imagina- 
tion, both in waking experience and in dreams, of well-trained 
observers. An inquiry among fifty Wellesley College stu- 
dents, somewhat trained in introspection, disclosed the fact 
that thirty-one were sure that they could imagine the odors 
of certain substances, such as burning tar, burning sulphur, 
and mignonette. 

More common than any of these classes of concrete imagi- 
nation is that to which we have already referred as the 
'mixed type.' The imagination of any object is likely, in 
other words, to include elements of more than one sense- 
order : it is not wholly visual and still less is it entirely audi- 
tory or tactual. Either the visual or auditory elements may 
predominate, but the imagination — of a dinner-party, for 
example — is rarely a mere complex of the colors and forms 
of dresses, faces, candles, flowers, foods, nor yet of the sounds 
of conversation, laughter, and service, but it includes both 
visual and auditory images, perhaps with a pressure image 
also of the 'feel' of linen or of silver, and a gustatory or 
olfactory image of the taste of beef or the odor of roses. 

Contrasted with all these classes of concrete imagination 
are the verbal types, which are far more prevalent than any 



24 A First Book in Psychology 

one, save the psychologist, realizes. In the experience of 
many people these altogether crowd out concrete imaginings. 
We suppose ourselves to be imagining the Heraion at Argos, 
the "Madonna della Sedia," or Liszt's "Hungarian Rhap- 
sody," when, as a matter of fact, we are mainly saying to 
ourselves the words 'Heraion,' 'madonna,' 'rhapsody.' Of 
course this is an artificial state of affairs. Words are con- 
ventional symbols, not instinctive reactions; they play no 
part at all in the imaginative life of animal or of baby, 
and little part in that of the savage. The civilized being, 
however, is born into a world of people whose most char- 
acteristic activity is neither eating, walking, nor fighting, but 
talking. At first, through pure imitation, and afterwards 
because he recognizes the utility of language, he largely occu- 
pies himself with words, first heard and spoken, and later 
read and written. And as habits fall away through disuse, 
so, little by little, in the experience of most of us, word-images 
take the place of concreter images of color, sound, and the 
like. It is unnecessary to dwell on the immense utility of 
verbal imagination, for we are already victims of what Mr. 
Garrison calls ' the ignorant prejudice in favor of reading and 
writing,' and, he might have added, 'of talking.' Words 
serve not only as the means of communication, and thus as the 
surest method of social development, but — by their abstract, 
conventional form — as an aid to rapid memorizing and to 
clear reasoning; they are indispensable parts of our intel- 
lectual equipment; yet they are in themselves but poor and 
insignificant experiences, and they work us irreparable harm 
if they banish, from the life of our imagination, the warm 
colors, broad spaces, liquid sounds, and subtle fragrances 
which might enrich and widen our experience. 



Verbal Imagination 25 

We have ample proof that this is no purely fictitious danger. 
Galton's most significant conclusion from his statistical study 
of imagination is that the "faculty of seeing pictures, . . . 
if ever possessed by men of highly generalized and abstract 
thought, is very apt to be lost by disuse." Many of the ' men 
of science,' whose imagination he tested, had "no more no- 
tion" of the nature of visual imagery "than a color-blind 
man . . . has of the nature of color. ' It is only by a figure 
of speech,'" one of them says, "'that I can describe my rec- 
ollection of a scene as a mental image that I can see with my 
mind's eye, ... I do not see it . . . any more than a man 
sees the thousand hnes of Sophokles which under due pressure 
he is ready to repeat.' " Every mixed figure is in truth a wit- 
ness to the common lack of concrete imagery. The earnest 
preacher who exhorted his hearers to water the sparks of 
grace, and the fervid orator who bewailed the cup of Ireland's 
misery as 'long running over, but not yet full,' were, of course, 
without the visual images which their words should suggest. 
Doubtless, most of their hearers received these astounding 
statements without a quiver of amusement — not, primarily, 
because they lacked a sense of humor, but because they failed 
to translate the words into visual imagery. 

The study of the varying forms of verbal imagination 
discloses the fact that, like the forms of concrete imagina- 
tion, they belong usually to a visual, an auditory, a tactual, 
or a ' mixed ' class, though they may conceivably be of other 
sense-types. The good visualizer images his words as they 
are printed on a page, reading them off, sentence by sentence 
or verse by verse, recalling the precise part of the page on which 
a given word or sentence appears. Galton tells of a statesman 
who sometimes hesitates in the midst of a speech, because 



26 A First Book in Psychology 

plagued by the image of his manuscript speech with its origi- 
nal erasures and corrections. Even musicians may be helped 
by symbolic imagery and may play by mentally reading their 
scores. Again, verbal imagination may be of words as heard ; 
and such masters of musical verse as Sophokles, Tennyson, 
and Swinburne must have auditory verbal imagery. One 
may 'hear' words spoken by oneself or by others, one may 
listen in imagination to conversations between different 
people, or one may recall whole scenes of a play in the char- 
acteristic intonations of different actors. "'When I write a 
scene,' said Legouve to Scribe,* ' I hear but you see. In each 
phrase which I write, the voice of the personage who speaks 
strikes my ear. Vous qui etes le theatre meme your actors 
walk, gesticulate before your eyes; I am a listener, you a 
spectator.'' 'Nothing more true,' said Scribe; 'do you know 
where I am when I write a piece? In the middle of the 
parterre.'" 

One's verbal imagery, finally, may be of the tactual-motor 
type; one may imagine oneself as speaking, or, less often, 
as writing the words. A simple proof of the frequent 
occurrence of these motor images was suggested by Dr. 
Strieker : t the attempt to imagine a word containing several 
labials — such a word as 'bob' or 'pepper' — without the 
faintest imaged or actual movement of the lips. Most people 
will be unsuccessful in such an experiment, which brings to 
light the presence, in verbal imagining, of the imagination 
or perception of movements of the throat and lips. Even 
the distinct effort to visualize words may result in tactual- 
motor images. James, for example, "can seldom call to 

* Quoted by W. James, op. cit., Vol. II., p. 60, from Binet. 

t "Studien liber die Sprachvorstellungen." Cf. James, Vol. II., p. 63. 



Verbal Imagination 27 

mind even a single letter of the alphabet in purely retinal 
terms. I must trace the letter," he says, "by running my 
mental eye over its contour." 

The various phenomena of aphasia, the cerebral disease 
affecting the word-consciousness, confirm these results of 
introspection. They show that verbal imagery is impaired 
by. injury to the visual, to the auditory, or to any tactual- 
motor centre, or by injury to the neurones connecting these 
areas, and that corresponding with these different patho- 
logical conditions there may be independent loss of words 
as read, as heard, as spoken, or as written. 

Several general conclusions follow from the study of the 
sense-orders of our images: the impossibility, first of all, of 
supposing that any normal person is unimaginative. Since 
imagination is not of necessity an artistic impulse, a lofty 
soaring in empyrean isolation from the everyday life, but 
merely, as we have seen, the imaging of colors, sounds, pres- 
sures, odors, tastes, or even of words, it follows that every- 
body who is conscious of anything whatever, in its absence, 
is in so far imaginative. When I am conscious of the hat 
which I yesterday bought or of the dinner which I shall eat 
to-day, no less than when I muse upon the picture I shall 
paint or of the world I shall discover, I am, in a strict sense, 
imaginative. Our study, furthermore, makes it clear that 
almost everybody is capable of inciting himself to vivid and 
accurate imagination of one sort or another. If, try as he 
will, the colors are washed out and the outlines indistinct in 
his visual images of an opera or of a country outlook, he may 
hear, in imagination, the varying parts of strings and horns 
in the orchestral prelude, the melodies of the songs and the 
harmonies of the choruses, or the liquid bird-notes, lapping 



28 A First Book in Psychology 

waves, and murmuring leaves of the summer afternoon. 
Even the minor image-types may be well developed, as the 
experiences of many defectives show. Helen Keller, who 
has been blind and deaf from earliest childhood, so that she 
can have neither visual nor auditory imagination, none the 
less imagines with peculiar vividness and detail pressures, 
movements, and even tastes and smells. A passage from 
her ^' Story of My Life " illustrates this lively and accurate 
imagining and may fitly close this chapter : — 

"Everything," she says, "that could hum, or buzz, or sing 
had a part in my education — noisy-throated frogs, katydids, 
and crickets held in my hand till they trilled their reedy 
note. I felt the bursting cotton bolls and fingered their soft 
fibre and fuzzy seeds . . ., I felt the low soughing of the 
wind through the corn stalks, the silky rustling of the long 
leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony ... as we put 
the bit in his teeth. . . . Ah, me ! How well I remember 
the spicy, clovery smell of his breath." 



CHAPTER III 

THE SENSATIONAL ELEMENTS OF PERCEPTION AND 
IMAGINATION 

In the second section of the preceding chapter, imagi- 
nation — and, by implication, perception — have been de- 
scribed according to sensational content. But the sensational 
elements themselves have been only incidentally considered. 
To repair this neglect, it will be well to recur to our initial 
example — I am writing with a blue pen on a warm summer's 
day within sound of a gardener's whistling. My present 
consciousness includes, therefore, the experiences of blueness, 
of whiteness, of tone, of warmth, and of pressure. These 
sensational elements of my consciousness maybe studied in 
any order. In this chapter, the first to be considered are 

I. Elemental Visual Experiences 
a. enumeration 
I (a) Visual Qualities: Experiences of Color 

Here we come at once upon a curious fact. An elemental 
consciousness of color, the experience of green, for example, 
is utterly indefinable. Every normal person realizes, yet no 
one can tell, what it is. I may say, '' I am conscious of green 
in looking at the trees; " or, ''my consciousness of green is 
produced by a mixture of blue and yellow pigments;" but 
these are statements about the consciousness of green, not 

29 



30 A First Book in Psychology 

descriptions of it. In truth, such descriptions are inherently 
impossible because description, or definition, involves an 
analysis of content, whereas an elemental experience is irre- 
ducible, that is, further unanalyzable. 

It follows that very little may be said, in terms of mere 
description, about the sensational color-qualities, that is, 
the elemental kinds of color-consciousness. At least four 
sensational color-qualities (that is, kinds of color experience) 
are admitted by almost all psychologists as unanalyzable, or 
elemental. These four are the con- 
sciousness of red, of yellow, of green, 
and of blue ; they are often described, 
also, as 'principal colors,' and for the 
following reason : If we have a succes- 
sion of color-experiences in the spec- 
trum order, we are certain to recognize 
Blue Green that thc scrics naturally divides itself 

Fig. I.— The Color Square, jj^^o four shorter scrics, . consciousness 

Adapted from G. E. 

Miiiier. of red to consciousness of yellow, con- 

sciousness of yellow to consciousness of green, and so on; 
and that the experiences nearest to each end term differ 
from it by being like one or other of the contiguous end 
terms. For example, my consciousness of yellowish orange 
differs from that of yellow by being like both the conscious- 
ness of red and the consciousness of yellow ; whereas my con- 
sciousness of olive differs from that of yellow by being like 
both the consciousness of yellow and the consciousness of 
green. We rightly, therefore, distinguish between the ele- 
mental experiences of red, yellow, green, and blue, and the 
other color-experiences, each of which is like two of the ele- 
ments or 'turning-points' of the color-square. Some psy- 



Red 




Yellow 




Orange 




% 

> 


Peacock 


o 



Elemental Visual Experiences 31 

chologists believe that only the four 'principal' color-qualities 
are elemental and that all the others are analyzable into two 
or more of the four. Other psychologists hold that there 
are as many elemental as distinguishable color-experiences. 
Into the details of this rather academic discussion we need 
not enter. 

(h) Visual Qualities: Experiences of Colorless Light 

Besides our experiences of color — of red, green, blue, and 
the like — we have also the introspectively different expe- 
riences of colorless light, that is, of white, gray, and black. 
There is wide diversity among psychologists in their account 
of the relation of these experiences. Some reckon the con- 
sciousness of gray as a complex experience analyzable into 
that of white and of black ; others hold that there is but one 
colorless light quality — the consciousness of gray, and that 
the experiences of white and of black are really experiences of 
light and dark gray.* A third view enumerates among the 
colorless light elements the consciousness of white, of black, 
and of all distinguishable grays. A fourth view recognizes 
three colorless light qualities (the consciousness of white, of 
black, and of gray) , explaining the differences in sensations 
of gray as distinctions in intensity. It is unnecessary and 
perhaps impossible to choose between these accounts. The 
important point is to note the evident distinction between the 
' colorless-light qualities,' the consciousness of white, of gray, 
and of black on the one hand, and the ' color-qualities ' on the 
other. Significant also is the fact that though one may have 
the colorless-light consciousness without the color-conscious- 

* For experiment, cf. Sanford, "Experimental Psychology," 140a. (Ref- 
erences throughout the footnotes to "Sanford" are to this book; and the 
numerals refer to his numbered experiments.) 



32 



A First Book in Psychology 



ness — in other words, though one may see white, gray, or 
black untinged by color — one is never conscious of color with- 
out colorless light. In the terms of physics : we never see an 
absolutely pure or, as it has been called, a ' saturated' blue or 
red. Most of our colors, indeed, are decidedly ' unsaturated,' 
that is to say, they seem to be mixed with colorless light. 



All told, we are capable of an indefinitely large number 
of visual experiences. Besides the consciousness of colorless 
WHITE light we have first (i) the 

principal color-qualities ; next 
(2) experiences of hue — the 
consciousness of greenish- 
blue, for example — of which 
each is like two of the princi- 
pal color-elements; (3) expe- 
riences of ' tint' — such as the 
consciousness of straw-color 
or pink — of which each is 
like some consciousness of 
color (or of hue) and the 
consciousness of light gray 
or white ; and (4) experiences 
of ' shade ' — for example, 
that of bottle-green — each 
of which resembles both the consciousness of color or hue 
and that of dark gray or black. An admirable way in which 
to represent to ourselves this wealth of our visual experience 
is by the figure known as the color pyramid.* The base of 

* Cf. Titchener, "Primer of Psychology," 1898, § 17, for the first form 
of the color-pyramid; "Experimental Psychology, Instructor's Manual, 




BLACK 

Fig. 2. — The Color Pyramid. (From 
Titchener, with altered wording.*) 



Elemental Visual Experiences 33 

this symbol represents the experiences of most saturated 
color — those in which there is least consciousness of white, 
of gray, or of black. Its rectangular form suggests the 
fact that the consciousness of red, of yellow, of green, and of 
blue are, as has been shown, turning-points in the color- 
quality series. The dotted vertical represents the ex- 
periences of white, of gray, of black. Toward the top, 
the surface of the pyramid represents the experiences of 
pale green, of straw-yellow, of sky-blue, and of pink ; toward 
the bottom the experiences of indigo-blue, of brown, of 
dark red, and of bottle-green, are represented. "All these 
tones," to quote Titchener again, ''are the most saturated 
possible, the most coloured colours of their kind," but " if 
we peel the figure" (like an onion), "leaving the black and 
white poles untouched, we get precisely what we had before, 
save that all the colour tones are less saturated, lie so much 
nearer to the neutral tones." 

2. Visual Intensities: Experiences of Brightness 

One cannot be conscious of a color, a red or a blue, for ex- 
ample, or of a colorless light, a white or black or gfay, with- 
out being at the same time conscious of brightness. The 
experience of brightness as well as that of color or of gray, 
is a distinct and unanalyzable element of consciousness. It 
cannot, of course, be separated from the consciousness of 
colorless light with which it is combined, but it may be per- 
fectly distinguished from it. The visual intensities are, as 
every one admits, indefinite in number. They are further- 
more distinguished from sensational qualities of color and of 

Qualitative," p. 5, for the quoted sentences; and " Experimental Psychology, 
Student's Manual, Qualitative," p. 3, for the outline of the figure. 



34 A First Book in Psychology 

colorless light, by their capacity for direct and simple serial 
arrangement.* ^^ But, partly because our practical and 
aesthetic interests are concerned only with extremes of in- 
tensity, we are not interested in naming the experiences of 
brightness as we are in naming those of color. For these 
reasons, the visual intensity-elements are estimated by com- 
parison with each other, and not with reference to absolute 
standards; and the intensity-series can be indicated only by 
words : '' bright — brighter — still more bright, etc." 

3. Visual Elements of Extensity 

Always along with our consciousness of color we experience 
a certain bigness, or extensity.* ^^ This, too, is an elemental 
sensational consciousness, an unanalyzable experience quite 
distinct from every other. In the words of James, it is " an 
element in each sensation, just as intensity is. The latter 
every one will admit to be a distinguishable though not 
separable ingredient. ... In like manner extensity, being 
an entirely peculiar kind of feeling indescribable except in 
terms of itself, and inseparable in actual experience from 
some seiisational quality which it must accompany, can it- 
self receive no other name than that ^of sensational elements 

b. THE ATTEMPTED EXPLANATION OF VISUAL EXPERIENCES 

I. The Physical and Physiological Conditions of the 
Consciousness of Color and Colorless Light 

(a) The Physical Conditions of the Visual Consciousness 

We have so far enumerated and, though roughly and par- 
tially, have classified our sensational visual experiences. We 

* All numerical exponents refer to Appendix, Section III., pp. 285 ff. 



Elemental Visual Experiences 35 

have next to seek some explanation of them. A brief reflec- 
tion will convince us that this explanation cannot be in terms 
of psychology, for very evidently it does not depend on me 
whether my present experience includes consciousness of 
green or of blue, of bright or of dull. The accepted expla- 
nation of every sort of sensational consciousness is in terms 
of physics and physiology, and the explanation of the color- 
consciousness is somewhat as follows : I have the sensational 
consciousness of green, let us say, because green light, n amely, 
ether vibrations nearly six hundred billions to the second, are 
refracted by the lenses of my eye to the retina, and there 
excite a physiological process which is propagated by the optic 
nerve to the occipital lobe of my brain. Thus the physical 
condition of our consciousness of color is ether-vibrations. 
The ether is described by physicists as an 'incompressible 
medium ' of extreme tenuity and elasticity which is supposed 
to pervade all space and to penetrate within the molecules of 
material substances. So impalpable a material has never 
been actually observed, but its existence is hypothetically 
assumed, because it offers the only plausible explanation of 
many physical phenomena. Because the ether pervades 
all bodies, it must be thrown into motion by their vibrating 
molecules, and its periodic, transverse vibrations are assumed 
to be the physical stimuli which condition the sensational 
qualities of color. Thus the colors vary according to the 
number of ether vibrations in a given time. The slowest 
vibrations, about four hundred and fifty billion each second, 
condition the retinal process which accompanies the sensa- 
tional quality 'red' ; and the swiftest vibrations, about seven 
hundred and eighty billion each second, form the physical 
stimulus to 'violet.' The following table includes these 



36 



A First Book in Psychology 



figures for five colors, naming also the length of the ether- 
waves, that is, the distance from wave to wave. It is evident 
that the longer the waves the smaller the number which can 
be propagated in a given time : — 



Consciousness 

OF 


Fraunhofer 
Lines 


No. Vibrations 
PER Second (») 


Wave-lengths (A) 


Red 


B 


450 billions 


687+ millionths of a millimeter 


Yellow 


D 


526 billions 


588 + millionths of a millimeter 


Green 


E 


589 billions 


526 millionths of a millimeter 


Blue 


F 


640 billions 


484 millionths of a millimeter 


Violet 


H 


790 billions 


392+ millionths of a millimeter 



The external conditions of the consciousness of color- 
less light are more complicated. Two sorts of relation 
between stimulus and consciousness must be distinguished; 
the consciousness of white, gray, or black is due either 
(i) to a mixture of colored lights or (2) to a single colored 
light. 

(i) Not every combination of colored lights produces the 
colorless-light consciousness, but for every colored light an- 
other may be found such that, if the two be mixed and if they 
fall simultaneously on the retina, a consciousness of colorless 
light will result. Color-stimuli which stand in this relation 
to each other are called complementary. Furthermore, a 
mixture of three, of four, and of more color-stimuli, rightly 
chosen, will produce the consciousness of colorless light; 
and daylight, which is physically a compound of ether-waves 
of all wave-lengths, of course has the same effect.* (2) But 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, op.cit., 148c and 149a; Titchener, "Ex- 
perimental Psychology, Student's Manual, Qualitative," § 8. (Footnote 
references to "Titchener" are to this book.) 



Elemental Visual Experiences 37 

the colorless-light consciousness results not only from mixture 
of colored lights ; it is sometimes excited by a single stimulus. 
The three most important cases in which one colored light, 
falling on the retina, is seen as gray are {a) in the faint light 
or twilight when, as the saying is, "all cats are gray" ; (6) in 
color-blind eyes ^^ to which some one color (most often red 
or green) or even all colors appear as gray ; * (c) when the 
colored light falls on the peripheral or outer edge of the retina. 
If, for instance, a small colored object be brought toward the 
field of vision from the right side, while the left eye is closed 
and the right eye firmly fixated on something directly in front 
of the face, it will be found that the colored object at first 
seems gray, and that it is seen in its true color only as it 
approaches the centre of the eye.f 

{h) The Physiological Conditions of the Consciousness 
of Color and Colorless Light 

Even the attempt to offer a physical explanation of our vis- 
ual sensations has led us, thus, to refer to physiological retinal 
conditions. We must now undertake a completer enumera- 
tion of these physiological conditions of vision. And it will 
be convenient to describe together the conditions of the color- 
consciousness and the colorless-light consciousness. 

In brief, the main physiological conditions of vision are the 
following: (i) A specific retinal process; (2) an excitation of 
the optic nerve which connects retina and brain ; (3) an ex- 
citation of the visual brain centre — probably the cortex of 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 135. 

t For experiments, cf. Sanford, 137a; Titchener, §9; C. E. Seashore, 
"Elementary Experiments in Psychology," Chapter III. (Footnote ref- 
erences to "Seashore" are to this book.) 



^S A First Book in Psychology 

the occipital lobe. Besides these antecedent, or condition- 
ing, physiological processes, there occur always (4) accom- 
panying and following movements of eyes and head. 

In considering the nature of the retinal process which 
excites color-vision, it is necessary to have in mind the struc- 
ture of the human eye.^° Roughly speaking, it is a sort of 
spherical camera obscura, protected by a shutter, the eyelid, 
and containing a compound lens whose refractiveness (or 
ability to focus light-rays) changes, so that clear images now 
of near and now of far objects may be thrown upon its 
plate, the retina. More literally, the eyeball is a sphere, 
moved by six strong muscles, composed of three membranous 
layers enclosing certain transparent substances, and pierced, 
from the rear, by the optic nerve. The outside layer of the 
eyeball is an opaque, whitish membrane, the sclerotic, which 
in its forward part becomes transparent and is called the 
cornea. The forward portion of the second, or choroid, 
coating of the eyeball is the iris, which we see as the * blue ' 
or ' brown ' of the eye. It is a sort of ' automatic diaphragm ' 
with an opening, the pupil, which grows larger in faint light 
and smaller in bright light. Behind the iris is the crystalline 
lens, most important of the transparent substances of the 
eye. By an automatic muscular contraction it becomes more 
refractive when near objects are fixated. The third coating, 
the retina,^^ covers the posterior two-thirds of the inner sur- 
face of the eyeball. It is composed of several layers, and the 
ninth of these layers consists of minute structures, of two types, 
known as rods and cones. These are so arranged that there 
are many cones and few rods in the centre, and many rods on 
the outlying portions of the retina. The rays of light from 
an object are refracted by the lenses of the eye, pierce through 



Elemental Visual Experiences 39 

the inner layers of the retina, and excite the rod and cone 
layer. The activity of rods and cones stimulates the optic 
nerve, and the optic nerve, in turn, transmits this excitation 
to the occipital lobes of the cerebral hemispheres. 

The retinal processes which condition the color and the 
colorless-light consciousness are very probably the following : ^^ 
(i) Colored light — for example, red light (that is, ether waves 
four hundred and fifty billion to the second, six hundred and 
ninety millionths of a millimeter long) — partially decomposes 
a chemical substance on the cones of the retina. There are 
four possible phases of the decomposition of this cone-sub- 
stance, and corresponding to them are the sensational ex- 
periences of red, of yellow, of green, and of blue.^^ (2) A 
mixture of colored lights totally decomposes this same cone- 
substance, and the consciousness of colorless light follows. 
(3) The consciousness of colorless light due to a single color- 
stimulus is excited by the decomposition of a similar, but less 
complex, chemical substance found on the rods of the retina. 
Any light stimulus suffices to break up this substance, and it 
is decomposable not in separate stages but only all at once. 
The three cases, already named, in which colored light excites 
colorless-light consciousness are thus explained : {a) When, 
as in twilight, the colorless-light stimulus is very faint, it 
lacks the intensity necessary to excite the processes of the 
cone-substance, whereas the rod-substance is particularly 
sensitive to faint light. ^* {h) When a colored light falls on the 
outlying, or peripheral, part of the retina, it excites only the 
rod-substance, since this part of the retina contains no cones. 
(c) In partial color-blindness the cones of the retina, may be 
supposed to be only partly developed, and the cone-substance 
to be decomposable in only two of the normal four stages. 



40 A First Book in Psychology 

In total color-blindness (if due to retinal and not to brain 
conditions) it may be supposed either that the retina contains 
only rods, and not cones, or that the cone-substance is as 
undeveloped as that on the rods/^ 

2. The Physical and Physiological Conditions of Visual 
Brightness and Extensity 

By a little amplification this account of physical and physio- 
logical processes may be expanded so as to explain also the 
consciousness of brightness and of visual extensity. The 
visual qualities are conditioned by the length, and the cor- 
responding number per second, of the ether waves ; the visual 
intensities, that is, the brightnesses, are conditioned by the 
wave amplitudes; the visual extensities, or bignesses, are 
conditioned presumably by the diffusion of the waves in space. 
The physiological conditions of these elemental visual ex- 
periences are probably the following: The 'qualities' (ex- 
periences of color and of colorless lights) are conditioned by 
the mode of the retinal excitation (partial or total decompo- 
sition of a retinal substance) , whereas visual intensities are 
conditioned by the degree of excitation ; and visual extensities 
are conditioned by the number of nerve-elements excited.^** 

It must be noted, in conclusion, that color sensations stand 
in more constant relation to physiological than to physical 
conditions. The phenomena of color contrast offer an ad- 
mirable illustration.^^ If one look fixedly for ten to twenty 
seconds at an illuminated green window and then look off 
at a neutral background, the background will appear not white 
or gray, but pinkish-purple ; or, if the illuminated window 
is blue, the background will appear as yellow. That is, 



Elemental Auditory Experiences 41 

if a brightly colored object has been fixated, gray light fall- 
ing on the same part of the retina results in the complemen- 
tary color sensation — a case of successive contrast.* Here 
the objective stimulus, colorless light, occasions a sensation 
not of gray but of a color. The explanation, in terms of the 
special case, is the following : the green light has exhausted, 
temporarily, a part of the photochemical substance in the 
retina, so that the process normally resulting in sensation of 
green does not follow. When, therefore, the retina is stimu- 
lated by colorless light (a combination of ether-waves of all 
vibration rates), the green constituent of the white light is 
ineffective, and its remaining constituents excite the processes 
which condition the consciousness of purple. 

Cases of simultaneous contrast also occur: that is, gray 
objects, seen on a colored background, appear to be of color 
complementary to the background.! 

II. Elemental Auditory Experiences 

a. ENUMERATION 

We have so far analyzed into its visual elements my per- 
ception of the moment. But I am a hearing as well as a 
seeing self: I am listening, it will be remembered, to "The 
Road to Mandalay" whistled to the accompaniment of a 
lawn-mower ; and my experience includes at least one tonal 
quality, my consciousness of a pitch, say C, and a second au- 
ditory experience, perhaps elemental — my consciousness of a 
whirring noise. The consciousness of pitch is the character- 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 124; Seashore, Chapter I.; Titchener, 
§ II, Exps. (7) and (8). 

t Cf. Sanford, 152, 5, c, d; Seashore, Chapter II. ; Titchener, § 10, 
especially Exps. (i), (2), (3). 



42 A First Book in Psychology 

istic factor of my consciousness that a tone is high or low, that 
a voice is soprano or aho. The most notable character of 
the pitch-qualities (experiences of pitch) is their capacity 
for arrangement in recurring series, the octaves. The num- 
ber of these tonal qualities (of pitch) is variously stated. On 
the ground that the trained hearer can distinguish about 
eleven thousand different tones, most psychologists assume 
an equal number of pitch-qualities. But on the ground of the 
close resemblance between a tone and its octave it has been 
urged that there are only as many pitch-qualities as there are 
distinguishable elements in an octave.* ^^ 

Psychologists are not agreed about the nature of our con- 
sciousness of noise. Many teach that it is a mere conglomer- 
ate of many pitch-qualities ; and in favor of this view it may 
be urged that in most if not all noises — in the roar of the 
streets, and in the hum of insects — we detect what we call 
pitch. Other psychologists hold that a consciousness of 
noise, even when complex, includes some characteristic noise- 
quality — as, for example, the consciousness of puff, of thud, 
or of rumble. f These alleged noise-qualities have been 
distinguished as continuous or momentary, but have been, 
on the whole, insufficiently studied. On the other hand, 
experiences of pitch have been the object of minute consid- 
eration as forming an important factor of the aesthetic con- 
sciousness. 

The elemental consciousness of a sound-quality, a pitch 
or a noise, is always fused, or combined, with the elemental 
experience of an auditory intensity, or loudness: that is, 
one. is conscious of every sound as more or less loud or soft. 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 67-68; Titchener, § 12 (i). 

t For experiments, cf. Sanford, 65; Titchener, § 12, (2) and (3). 



Elemental Auditory Experiences 43 

And according to many (though not to all) psychologists, 
the consciousness of quality and of intensity are fused also 
with that of auditory extensity, or bigness.^^ This auditory 
extensity, or voluminousness, is the predominant factor in our 
distinction of one instrument from another — 'cello from 
organ, or flute from violin — when both are playing at the 
same pitch and intensity. 

To sum up the results of the preceding paragraphs: the 
following auditory, sensational elements of consciousness 
occur: (i) auditory qualities (pitches, or tonal qualities and, 
perhaps, noise-qualities) ; (2) loudnesses, or auditory intensi- 
ties; (3) auditory extensities. A fusion of loudness and 
voluminousness with predominating pitch-quality is a tone. 
A fusion of loudness and voluminousness with noise-quality 
is a noise. (Or, if the occurrence of specific noise-qualities 
is denied, a noise may be defined as a complex of tones with- 
out any one prolonged or emphasized pitch-quality.) 

h. ATTEMPTED EXPLANATION OF ELEMENTAL AUDITORY 
EXPERIENCES 

The main explanation of the specific nature of the auditory 
elements of consciousness is, once more, physical and physio- 
logical. 

I. The Physical Conditions of Auditory Sensation 

We shall find it convenient to consider the physical, and 
therefore secondary and remote, conditions of pitch and 
noise-quality, before regarding the more immediate physio- 
logical antecedents. The physical condition of the auditory 
consciousness in general may be described as oscillation of air- 
particles, producing rarefactions and condensations of the 
air. A rarefaction followed by a condensation is called an 



44 ^ First Book in Psychology 

atmospheric wave, {a) The consciousness of pitch is, in all 
probability, occasioned by a succession of simple and regular 
atmospheric waves. The experience of noise is probably 
due either to a momentary unperiodic vibration, or to a com- 
bination of air- waves of nearly identical length — for example, 
to the complex of air-waves which are set into vibration when 
one simultaneously strikes a great number of piano keys. 
Different qualities of pitch are found by experiment to cor- 
respond to the varying length of the atmospheric waves. 
The swifter the atmospheric vibrations, that is, the greater the 
number and the shorter the length of the air-waves in any 
second of time, the higher is the pitch-quality; and, on the other 
hand, the slower the vibrations, that is, the fewer and longer 
the air-waves in a second, the lower or deeper is the pitch- 
quality. This is the principle on which all stringed instru- 
ments are constructed. The shorter strings of the piano are 
struck to produce its higher notes; and the violinist's finger 
divides his string to obtain from the swifter air-vibrations, 
propagated by the motion of each half, a tone an octave higher 
than that produced by the slower vibration of the entire length. 
As, therefore, a definite number of ether-vibrations corre- 
sponds with each experience of color, so each consciousness of 
pitch has its air- vibration number : the consciousness of low c, 
for example (in what is called the small octave) , is produced, 
through the excitation of nerve-endings and brain-cells, by 
one hundred and twenty-eight vibrations; and that of its 
octave, c', is excited by exactly twice as many, or two hundred 
and fifty-six vibrations. (IS) The amplitude of an atmos- 
pheric wave, that is, the length of the extreme excursion (one 
way or other) of each air-particle is the condition of our con- 
sciousness of sound-intensity; and the wave diffusion (the 



Elemental Auditory Experiences 45 

number of waves of given length and amplitude) probably 
explains our consciousness of sound-extensity. 

But these physical phenomena are conditions of the audi- 
tory consciousness only indirectly as they bring about physi- 
ological processes. 

2. The Physiological Conditions of Auditory Sensation 

Air-waves pass from the outer ear/^ through a short tube, 
and strike upon a stretched membrane (the tympanic mem- 
brane) at the entrance to the middle ear. This membrane 
is thus thrown into vibration and transmits its motion to a 
series of three small bones, which serve to transform ampli- 
tude into strength of vibration. The foot of the 'stirrup,' 
or inmost of these bones, fits into an opening in the inner ear ; 
and the inner ear is a complex of bony tubes, lined with mem- 
brane and filled with liquid, embedded in the temporal bone 
of the skull. Probably only one of the three main divisions, 
namely, the cochlea, oi the inner ear has to do with sensational 
elements of sound. The cochlea contains a structure, the 
basilar membrane,^^ made up of fibres graded in length so 
as to correspond to vibrations of different periods; and the 
auditory nerve has its ending in certain cells supported by 
these fibres. 

The process which conditions hearing is, according to 
the theory of Helmholtz, the following : ^^ The tympanic 
membrane, set in motion by an air-wave, say of one hun- 
dred and twenty-eight vibrations per second, communi- 
cates this motion to the bones of the middle ear and thence 
to the liquid contained in the inner ear. The movement 
of this liquid excites those only of the fibres of the basilar 
membrane whose vibration number is exactly, or approxi- 



46 A First Book in Psychology 

mately, one hundred and twenty-eight. If several basilar 
membrane fibres are excited by a compound vibration, the 
complex consciousness of a clang, or chord, follows. The 
consciousness of noise is perhaps best explained as due to the 
excitation of basilar membrane fibres in which ''one fibre 
does not vibrate more, strongly than the rest." * This ex- 
planation covers not only cases in which the consciousness 
of noise is excited because "a considerable part of the basilar 
membrane is thrown into uniform vibration" by a complex 
of air-waves of closely similar vibration-number, but also 
those in which the consciousness of noise is due to an un- 
periodic stimulus which "lasts for an exceedingly brief 
time." For, in both cases, there is "no well-defined point 
of maximal stimulation." 

It should be added that the air vibrations which produce 
very high and very loud sounds may be directly carried to 
the cochlea by the bony walls of the skull. Very high and 
very loud sounds are therefore audible to persons who have 
lost the organs of the middle ear. But however the 
cochlear process is stimulated, and whatever is its nature, 
it excites the auditory nerve terminals in the basilar 
membrane cells, and the excitation is conveyed to the 
auditory centres in the exterior temporal lobes of the 
brain. ^ As in the case of visual stimulation, such excitation 
always passes over into outgoing motor nerves, and bodily 
movements, especially head movements, result. Character- 
istic among these movements, in the case of the higher ver- 
tebrate animals, are adjustments of the outer ear such as we 
know so well in the dog and in the horse. Most human 
beings have lost the capacity for ear movements. 

* C. S. Myers, "A Text-book of Experimental Psychology," pp. 55-56. 



Elemental Smell Experiences 47 

III. Elemental Consciousness of Smell (Olfactory 
Experiences) 

While listening to the mower's whistling I am, it will be 
remembered, faintly conscious of the odor of freshly cut grass : 
that is, my sensational experience includes smelling as well 
as seeing and hearing. In purely descriptive technical terms, 
there seems little to be said about the elements of smell-ex- 
perience. I can in truth discriminate many odors, which 
means that my smelling includes different sensational qualities 
and intensities ; but nobody has succeeded in analyzing the 
experience into irreducible elemental qualities, fixed by defi- 
nite names.^* Complex smell-experiences are named, ordi- 
narily, froni objects to which they belong; or are known 
simply by the feeling which accompanies them, as pleasant 
or unpleasant. 

Little is known of the external conditions of smell. The 
smell stimulus must be gaseous in form, and it affects end- 
organs lying in the membranous lining of the upper part of the 
nostrils.^^ The nostrils open into the pharynx ; and thus the 
smell end-organs may be excited by way of the mouth cavity, 
and it is also true that particles may reach the mouth 
through the nostrils. The following section will call atten- 
tion to one result of this close connection between smell and 
taste-organs. The cerebral centre for smell is in the median 
side of the temporal lobes, ^ and the excitation of this brain 
centre is normally followed by characteristic movements. 

IV. Elemental Taste Experiences 

We are familiar already with the psychologist's method 
of approaching every experience, — the analysis of it into 



48 A First Book in Psychology 

its ultimate elements. The method has now to be applied 
to the experiences which we know as tastes. 

The ordinary individual, asked to name what he had 
'tasted' at dinner, might answer that he had tasted beef- 
bouillon, roast duck, potato, onion, dressed celery, peach ice, 
and coffee. But the psychologist would conclude at once that 
some of these experiences were complex, made up of simpler 
elements. And the experimentalist would go farther: he 
would take means to isolate, so far as he could, the conditions 
of taste, so that other sense-elements should be shut out from 
consciousness. To this end he would select, if possible, 
as subject of the experiments, an anosmic person, that is, 
one without smell-sensations, or else he would close the sub- 
ject's nostrils, so as to eliminate most of these smell-sensa- 
tions; and he would certainly blindfold the subject, to pre- 
vent his seeing the articles which he tasted. These substances 
would be presented to him at an even temperature, and the 
solids would be finely minced so as to be indistinguishable in 
form. Judging by the results of actual experiments, in par- 
ticular those of Professor G. T. W. Patrick, the results of 
such a test, as applied to our suggested menu, would be the 
following: the blindfolded and anosmic subject would as 
likely as not suppose that he had tasted chicken broth, beef, 
potato, an unknown sweetish substance, another unknown 
material mixed with a thick, tasteless oil, a sweet unflavored 
substance and a slightly bitter liquid — perhaps a dilute 
solution of quinine. A normal person, also blindfolded, but 
without closed nostrils, would recognize the onion, the peach, 
the coffee, and often the olive oil ; but would be likely to 
confuse the beef and the duck; whereas, if these were un- 
salted, the anosmic subject would fail to recognize them 



Elemental Taste Experiences 49 

even as meats. Certain substances, on the other hand, for 
instance, the different sorts of bread, of white, graham, and 
rye flours, would be better discriminated by the anosmic 
subject. 

These results are easy of interpretation. What we know 
as tasting is a complex experience ' made up ' of experiences 
of odor, of pressure, and of pain — not to speak of visual ele- 
ments — in varying combination with a limited number of 
distinct experiences of taste, (i) The consciousness of odor 
is the significant factor in ' tasting ' egg, fruit, wine, onion, 
chocolate, coft'ee, and tea. Tea and coffee are, indeed, un- 
distinguished from quinine, when the odor-elements are ex- 
cluded, and are differentiated from each other only by the 
slight astringency of the tea, that is, by the peculiar pres- 
sure-experience, the 'puckering,' which it incites. (2) The 
experience due to tasting nuts, vegetables, or grains forms a 
second class, for it consists, in large part, of pressure-sensa- 
tions excited by stimulation of the tongue. It follows that 
because of his trained attention to degrees of roughness, 
smoothness, hardness, and softness, the anosmic person can 
distinguish better than the normal person, if both are blind- 
folded, breads made of different grains. (3) The experi- 
ence of pungent taste, in the third place, is largely distin- 
guished by sensational elements of pain and perhaps of heat. 
(4) And finally, in another kind of tasting, the important 
feature is visual, as is proved by the fact that the varieties 
of meats and of bread are so frequently undistinguished by 
the blindfolded observer. 

But, though so-called tasting is thus proved to contain the 
sense-consciousness of smell, of pressure, and of color, it 
is characterized also by certain distinctive elemental taste- 



50 A First Book in Psychology 

experiences. According to experimental introspection, there 
are four taste-qualities : sweet, salt, sour, and bitter, besides 
an indefinite number of sense-intensities. Some psycholo- 
gists believe there are also taste-extensities, that in eating 
roast beef, for example, one has a consciousness of bigness, 
absent from the consciousness of lemon. It should be noted 
that the taste-qualities, the experiences of salt, sweet, sour, 
and bitter, do not introspect! vely order themselves either 
(like the color-quaHties) in an articulated series, or (like 
the auditory quaHties) in a periodic series. Like the color- 
qualities, however, they are capable of contrast effects — for 
example, lemonade is very sour after ice-cream.* 

Concerning the external stimulus of taste, little can be said. 
Chemically distinct substances may even arouse the same 
sensational quality; for example, both sugar and acetate of 
lead give a ' sweet' taste. The stimulus must, however, be in 
liquid form ; for, if the top of the tongue be carefully dried, a 
grain of sugar or of quinine placed upon it will not be tasted 
till the tongue becomes moist again. The physiological end- 
organs of taste are minute structures contained in the mucous 
membrane of mouth and of throat, especially in the papillae 
(or little hillocks) of the tongue.^^ The cerebral centres are 
probably near the smell-centres,^ and the characteristic 
motor accompaniments are movements of the tongue. 

V. Elemental Pressure Experiences 
a. pressure experiences through external excitation 

I am, it will be remembered, not only listening to the 
mower's whistling, looking down at my desk and scenting the 

* For experiment, cf. Titchener, § 26; Myers, op. cit., p. 365, Exp. 
79- 



Elemental Pressure Experiences 51 

new-mown hay, but I am conscious of grasping my pen. My 
sensational consciousness certainly includes the experience 
of tactual quality, of tactual intensity, and of tactual bigness. 
Everybody admits that there are indefinitely many pressure 
intensities and extensities, and it has been thought that as 
there are many qualities of color and of pitch, so also there are 
many pressure-qualities — the experiences, for example, of 
contact, of hardness and softness, of roughness and smooth- 
ness, and of wetness. On close inspection these turn out, 
however, to be complex (though relatively simple) experiences 
in which pressure-quality is the essential component. Thus, 
the consciousness of contact is that of faint pressure ; the ex- 
perience of smoothness seems to be that of uninterrupted pres- 
sure; and the alleged sensation of hardness is a complex 
whose chief constituent is the sensation of intense pressure 
due to excitation of end-organs in the joints. The experience 
of wetness seems, at first thought, unambiguously elemental 
and unanalyzable, but it is really a complex of warmth or cold 
consciousness combined with the experience of smoothness 
and, often, with a visual image of the liquid stimulus. This 
is proved by the fact that one often cannot tell the difference 
between dry or wet hotness or coldness. One does not know, 
for example, by the mere 'feeling' of them, whether one's 
feet are wet or merely cold ; and whether a hot compress is 
dry or wet. 

The physical stimulus of our pressure-sensations is mechan- 
ical. As it affects the skin, it must produce an actual defor- 
mation ; and we therefore feel the surface pressure of a large 
object only at its terminal lines : for example, if the hand is 
plunged in water, the pressure is felt only where the wrist 
emerges. But contact with the skin does not always result 



52 A First Book in Psychology 

in pressure-sensation. For, contrary to our usual view, the 
skin is not, as a whole, sensitive to pressure stimuli. ^^ If I 
am blindfolded, and a small blunted point of cork or wood is 
drawn gently over the surface of any part of my body, for 
example, of my arm, I shall feel it as touching my skin at cer- 
tain points only — usually at the roots of the hairs of the skin, 
but in hairless spots also.* This shows that certain minute 
structures embedded in the skin are end-organs of pressure; 
and it has been found that these organs are of two sorts: 
(i) hair-cells and (2) more developed structures known as 
Meissner's corpuscles. ^^ 

h. EXPERIENCES, MAINLY OF PRESSURE, THROUGH INTER- 
NAL EXCITATION 

End-organs of pressure are found not only in the skin but 
on the joint-surfaces, and perhaps embedded in the muscles. ^^ 
Pressure-sensations through bending the joints are, indeed, 
strong and readily discriminated. One may readily convince 
oneself of their occurrence if one lower a weight by a string 
attached to the forefinger till it strikes floor or table. At 
the moment when it strikes, one experiences a sensation, 
evidently of pressure, which can only be due to the backward 
movement of the lower upon the upper joint-surface of the 
arm.! 

. Besides these admitted pressure-sensations, there are several 
other sensational experiences due also to internal excitation, 
of which, probably, or possibly, pressure-sensations are the 
main constituent. These internally excited sensations are 
(i) the alleged sensation of strain. This is occasioned by 

* For experiments, cf. vSanford, 21; Seashore, p. ^?>; Titchener, § 21. 
t For experiments, cf. Sanford, 39, 40; Myers, op. cii., p. 352, Exp. 42. 



Elemental Pressure Experiences 53 

lifting weights and by assuming rigid bodily attitudes. A 
simple way to excite it, for example, is to clench the hand 
firmly, but in such wise that its surfaces do not touch each 
other. No external pressure can then be felt, but the resulting 
experience is said to include, not only a weak sensation of 
pressure from the moving of the surfaces of the finger-joints 
on each other, but also a new experience, that of strain, 
regarded by some as elemental, by others as a complex con- 
sciousness of pressure and of pain. It is specifically due to 
excitation of the tendons. 

(2) A second alleged sensation from internal excitation is 
that of dizziness, due to excitation of the semicircular canals. ^^ 
What is known as dizziness is probably either a complex 
experience or a mere pressure-sensation. It includes, or is 
closely accompanied by, moving visual images of objects and 
figures rotating slowly, or slipping and swimming about in 
one's field of vision. It is furthermore sometimes, though 
by no means invariably, accompanied by the feeling of 
nausea. For the rest, it seems to consist of a pressure- 
sensation 'located' within the head. 

(3) So-called 'organic ' sensations are more evidently 
complex experiences. These include {a) the so-called sen- 
sations from excitation of the alimentary canal, hunger, thirst, 
nausea, and {h) the so-called circulatory and respiratory 
sensations. Carefully analyzed, each of these, in the writer's 
opinion, will disclose itself as complex, and not, in any 
sense, elemental. Thirst, for example, is a complex of pres- 
sure and warmth sensations ; it is due to a drying of the mu- 
cous membrane of the mouth-cavity, which becomes a poorer 
conductor of warmth. The chief element in hunger, also, is 
probably that of pressure, brought about by some chemical 



54 A First Book in Psychology 

action on the lining of the stomach. What is called nausea 
is a still more complex experience, but its essential ingredient 
is pressure, due to the antiperistaltic reflexes of the oesophagus. 

The alleged respiratory sensations, such as breathlessness, 
suffocation, and stuffiness, are evidently experiences including 
several elements: first, and most important, pressure-sen- 
sations; often also, sensations of strain, as when one holds 
one's breath; and, finally, for most people, a visual image 
of the part of the body — chest or throat — which is affected. 
The 'circulatory' sensations are either, like itching and fever- 
ishness, compounds of warmth and pressure-sensations, or 
else they are the massive pressure-sensations from difficult 
breathing or from abnormally strong heart-beat. 

These 'organic' experiences, though seldom attended to, 
are nevertheless of great significance, for they may form part 
of our most complex ideas and moods. Emotions are, as we 
shall see, especially rich in 'organic' sensations. When, for 
example, I am afraid, my heart flutters ; when I am grieved, 
my throat is choked; when I am perplexed, there is a weight 
on my chest. And though I concern myself little with these 
seemingly unimportant experiences, they none the less effec- 
tively color my moods.* 

The cerebral condition of pressure-sensation, whether 
from external or from internal excitation, is, in the view 
of most physiologists, excitation of the region about the 
fissure of Rolando.'^ From this centre, motor nerves 
spread outward and downward to all muscles of the body 
(and limbs) and pressure-sensations are, therefore, normally 
accompanied and followed by bodily movements of all 
varieties. 

* Cf. Chapter XII., pp. 200 £F. 



Elemental Pain Experience 55 

VI. Elemental Pain Experience 

The pin point which, gently applied, excites first a sensa- 
tional experience of pressure, may bring about, an instant 
later, a very different sort of consciousness, that of pain. 
This is evidently distinct from all other sensation-elements 
through stimulation of the skin, and no good observer con- 
fuses the pressure-consciousness with the pain due to a heavy 
weight. But it is perhaps less easy to realize that the con- 
sciousness of pain is quite distinct from that of unpleasantness. 
It is unpleasant, for example, not painful, to discover that 
one has given to the deck steward twice too large a fee; and 
the sight of the rose-pink gown of the lady with auburn hair 
is unpleasant and not painful. The confusion is mainly due 
to the fact that the sensational experience of pain is always 
accompanied by unpleasantness. In the case of apparent 
exceptions, as of the slight pain which we intentionally inflict 
upon ourselves to see how it will feel, the pleasantness is 
probably that of the novelty, not of the pain. But it does not 
follow from the fact that pains are always unpleasant, that 
unpleasantnesses are always painful, still less that the two are 
identical. Our first conclusion, therefore, is that painfulness, 
an experience which follows upon the burning, bruising, or 
cutting of the skin and upon certain internal changes, is 
different from unpleasantness or disagreeableness. 

Some psychologists beHeve that there is one quality of pain, 
as of pressure, and that the experiences which we differentiate 
as acute, dull, stinging, gnawing pains are qualitatively the 
same, though differing in intensity, perhaps in extensity or 
bigness, and in steadiness. Professor Ebbinghaus, on the 
other hand, teaches that there are two p'ain-qualities, the 



56 A First Book in Psychology 

consciousness of acute (stechend) and of dull (dump/) 
pain* 

When we ask for the physical condition of pain we are met 
by an unusual relation. For every other form of sense-qual- 
ity we have found a definite, even if vaguely characterized, 
physical stimulation. In the case of pain, however, it is 
obvious at once that no specific form of energy occasions it, 
but that the same stimuli which excite sensations of pressure, 
warmth, and cold, and possibly even those which excite visual 
and auditory sensations, may bring about painfulness also, if 
only they are very intense, long-continued, or often repeated. 
Hard or long-continued pressure, intense heat and cold, and 
possibly blinding lights and crashing sounds may be called 
painful; whereas excessive sweetness and heavy fragrance 
are merely unpleasant. 

It used to be held that just as, physically, pain seems due 
to high degrees of mechanical and thermal stimulus, so, 
physiologically, it must be referred to excessive functioning 
of pressure (perhaps, also, of warmth and cold) end-organs. 
But this is disproved by the fact that certain anesthetics 
destroy the sensitiveness of the skin to pain stimuli, 
whereas other drugs make the skin insensitive to pressure. 
If the oculist treats one's eye with cocaine, one is distinctly 
conscious of the contact of his instruments, but feels no pain ; 
a similar use of saponin annihilates pressure-sensations and 
leaves pain. Furthermore, 'pain-spots' have been found on 
various areas of the skin f — whereas, from other parts, large 
areas of the cheeks, for example, they are lacking. When 
these spots are excited by any stimulus, mechanical or thermal, 

* "Grundziige der Psychologic," 1902, I., § 36. 

t For experiments* cf. Sanford, 32 a; Seashore, p. 85; Titchener, § 22. 



Elemental Experiences of Temperature 57 

electrical or chemical, consciousness of pain without 
pressure results. Either, then, the skin must contain 
special end-organs of pain ^^ — as most physiologists now 
hold — or, as Goldscheider the discoverer of pain-spots 
suggests, pain is physiologically due not to the activity of 
any nerve end-organs in the skin but to a transforma- 
tion, in the gray substance of the spinal cord, of 
nerve-excitations conveyed from especially exposed pressure- 
organs. 

Pain-sensation, like pressure-sensation, may be excited 
within the body ; yet the abdominal organs are, in the main, 
insensitive to mechanical and thermal stimulation, "may be 
handled, pinched, or cauterized," as Foster says, "without 
pain or indeed any sensation being felt." The consciousness 
of pain is, however, conditioned by excitation of the exter- 
nal peritoneum and the lining of the abdomen, and by press- 
ure against the diaphragm. No special cerebral centre of 
pain is known. Movements of avoidance and withdrawal 
accompany the experience. 

VII. Elemental Experiences of Temperature 

Experiences of warmth, cold, and hotness are grouped 
together because of apparent similarity. Nobody questions 
that the consciousness of warmth and that of cold are ele- 
mental experiences, further unanalyzable and radically dif- 
ferent from other sorts of sensational consciousness — from 
the consciousness of pain or of pressure, for example. It is 
less easy to classify, introspectively, the sensational experience 
of hotness. Clearly, it is not, as is often assumed, merely 
an intenser consciousness of warmth. But whether it is a 
third elemental experience or a complex of warmth and 



58 A First Book in Psychology 

pain consciousness is harder to determine. Evidently many- 
intensities of warmth, cold, and hotness are distinguish- 
able. 

No direct relation can be discovered between the degree 
of the thermometer and the cold, or warmth, or heat sensa- 
tion. In other words, we are not always warm when the 
thermometer registers a high degree, and cold when it stands 
at a low figure. On the contrary, the room which seems 
warm to me as I enter it after a brisk walk seems chilly an 
hour later, though the height of the mercury is unchanged; 
and if I warm one hand and cool another, the same lukewarm 
water will seem cool to the first and warm to the second.* 
These experiences, and others like them, seem clearly to 
show that the surface sensation of warmth or of cold or of 
heat is not determined by the actual temperature of an organ, 
but by the relation between the temperature of an organ 
and that of its environment. When the physical .temperature 
of the organ exceeds that of its environment, the sensation is 
of cold ; and, on the other hand, when the temperature falls 
below that of the environment, one has the experience of 
warmth, changing — as we have seen — at a certain point to 
that of heat. 

The thermal stimulation of the skin is occasioned in two 
ways : by radiation of heat from outer objects and by mus- 
cular activity, which means loss of energy in the form of 
heat. I may grow warm, for example, by basking in the sun, 
or by swinging dumb-bells. Not the skin as a whole, how- 
ever, but certain definite end-organs are affected. This is 
shown by applying warm and cold surfaces of very small 
extent to different parts of the body. A bit of metal may 

* For experiments, cf, Sanford, 16; Titchener, p. 53, end. 



Elemental Experiences of Temperature 59 

be moved along for some little distance on the surface of 
the body, without rousing the experience of cold, which, 
however, will suddenly occur as the stimulus reaches one 
of the 'cold spots' over an end-organ of cold.. There are 
fewer of these than of pressure or pain spots, and the 
warmth-spots are least frequent of all and most scattered.''' 
The cornea of the eye is sensitive to cold, but not to press- 
ure; and both warmth and cold spots are found within 
the mouth-cavity where no pain-spots have been discovered. 
Most of the inner surfaces of the body, however, seem to lack 
warmth and cold end-organs. Even the mucous lining of 
the mouth-cavity is less sensitive than the outer skin, so that 
one may drink, with perfect comfort, coffee which seems un- 
bearably hot if it touches the lip.^^ 

The specific end-organs of warmth and of cold have not 
been definitely determined. But experiment seems to show 
quite conclusively that I feel hotness when end-organs for 
cold and for warmth are simultaneously excited. No special 
cerebral centre is known, and no peculiarly characteristic 
movements follow. 

With this consideration of our sensational consciousness of 
warmth and of cold we have come to the end of our merely 
structural analysis f of perception and imagination into sen- 
sational elements. Two points must be touched upon, in 
conclusion. It must be noted in the first place that a sen- 
sational quality always occurs in close combination with an 
intensity and often with an extensity. One is, for example, 
simultaneously conscious of bigness, brightness, and blue- 
ness as one looks at the summer sky. The fusion of quality 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 13; Seashore, p. 83; Titchener, § 19. 
t Cf. above, p. 14. 



6o A First Book in Psychology 

with intensity (and with bigness) is called sensation. Some 
psychologists treat the sensation as unit of perception and 
describe the qualities, — of color, pitch, and the like, — the 
intensities ^ brightnesses, loudnesses, and so on — and the 
extensities, not as sensational elements but as attributes of 
sensation.^ ^ 

The succeeding chapter will speak further of fusions. 
In the meantime, a word must be said of the physiological 
conditions of perception and imagination. In ordinary 
perception, some sensational elements are excited through 
stimulation of end-organs (that is, 'peripherally' excited), 
whereas all sensational elements in imagination are con- 
ditioned by brain excitation (' centrally ' excited) . So, when 
I imagine the Theatre of Dionysos, at Athens, only my oc- 
cipital lobe is excited, but when I look out at Symphony Hall, 
my retina is excited as well; when I imagine the flute-like 
song of the hermit thrush, only my temporal lobe is excited ; 
but when I hear the telephone bell ring, the inner organs of 
my cochlea are in vibration. 

It should be noted that this account of the physiological 
condition of perception does not hold in the case of the halluci- 
nation. The hallucination, like the illusion, is a perception 
which does not directly correspond with any external ob- 
ject.* Both hallucination and illusion are perception — that 
is, involuntary and predominantly sensational experience, 
reflectively attributed to other people, of objects regarded as 
impersonal and external. But whereas the illusion includes 
peripherally excited elements, a hallucination contains only 
centrally excited sense-elements. The dream or delirium 

* On Illusions, cf. Chapter IV., pp. 72 ff., and Appendix, Section IV., 
(i). On Hallucinations, cf. Appendix, Section XVI. 



Elemental Experiences of Temperature 6i 

image of a ghost, for example, is a hallucination, because 
it is not excited by any external object, whereas the tradi- 
tional confusion of window-curtain with ghost is an illusion. 
Evidently, therefore, the hallucination, though a form of 
perception, is not distinguishable, by physiological condition, 
from imagination. 

There is perhaps a danger lest this long, though at every 
point abbreviated, study of ourselves as sensationally con- 
scious may retard our apprehension of the essential nature of 
our perceiving and imagining. We run the risk of not seeing 
the woods for the trees — of missing the figure for the de- 
tails. For this reason, we shall here again summarize the 
basal conclusions of the two preceding chapters without spe- 
cial reference to the structural analysis undertaken in this 
chapter. According to these conclusions, perception, like 
imagination, is the complex and predominantly sensational 
consciousness of a particularized impersonal object in 
relation to myself. But the perceiving self differs from 
the imagining self (i) in that it knows itself to be 
involuntarily conscious; (2) in that it may later regard 
itself as having shared its experience with unparticularized 
other selves ; and (3) in that it regards its impersonal object 
as external, that is, independent of itself. The imagining 
self, on the other hand, to some degree controls its ex- 
perience, which, accordingly, is regarded as more 'private' 
and as normally unshared; and its objects are not ex- 
ternalized. To recur to our initial example: I am sensa- 
tionally conscious both of the desk which I see and of 
the Tyrolese landscape which I imagine; but I realize 
that I am inevitably conscious of an external desk, whereas 
I may direct my attention away from my mountain- 



62 A First Book in Psychology 

image; and (as I later reflect), I share my consciousness 
of the desk with the housemaid who dusts it, whereas she 
does not know that I am imagining snowy mountains any 
more than I know what enthraUing image brings the smile to 
her lips and diverts her attention from the dustiest corner of 
the desk. 



CHAPTER IV 

PERCEPTION AND IMAGINATION AS COMBINATION AND 
DIFFERENTIATION OF ELEMENTS 

A, Perception and Imagination as Fusion and Assimi- 
lation 

It has appeared, in an earlier chapter, that perception and 
imagination are analyzable into irreducible sensational ele- 
ments. It is necessary now to emphasize the fact that in 
ordinary perceiving and imagining one is not aware of these 
elemental constituents of consciousness, the different qualities, 
intensities, and extensities. Such analysis is the reflective 
work of the psychologist, not the immediate experience of the 
perceiving self. Thus, one's immediate consciousness of a 
tone is an undistinguished, unitary consciousness, and is 
not an awareness of a pitch, an intensity and a timbre, 
though tone-consciousness is analyzable, in after reflection, 
into these factors, and though it is due to distinguishable 
physical and physiological conditions. Similarly, the imme- 
diate consciousness of a tone sounded simultaneously with 
its octave is rarely an experience of two tones as distin- 
guishable from each other, though united; indeed, it is 
often difficult to differentiate these tones even by an effort 
of attention. 

The unity of an experience, in this merely negative sense 
of the absence of differentiation, is often known as fusion.^ * 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
divisions (§§) of the Appendix, Section IV. 

63 



64 A First Book in Psychology 

By fusion is meant, therefore, the absence of discrimination in 
an experience which is nevertheless (i) due to several end- 
organ excitations, and therefore (2) analyzable in after-reflec- 
tion into distinguishable elements. The combination, for 
example, of the C and G, the loudness, and the volume of a 
given chord, is a case of fusion ; and so is the combination of 
the experiences of redness, yellowness, colorless light, bright- 
ness, bigness, odor, coolness, pressure through joint and skin 
stimulation, and of pleasure, from an apple which one is 
rolling about in one's hand. Each one of the combined or 
fused elements must be directly excited by the stimulation of 
an end-organ, and not merely indirectly excited through the 
stimulation, by connecting fibres, of the corresponding brain- 
centres. 

Fusions differ from each other only in the degree of close- 
ness with which the diverse elements are connected, and this 
is tested by the difficulty of the analysis in different cases. 
The closest fusions which we know are those of the different 
elements invariably connected in a sensation, the quality, 
intensity, and extensity.* Almost, if not quite, as close as 
this fusion is that of a color with colorless light: this is 
the closest combination which we know of different qualities. 
Other examples are the fusion of taste and smell in many so- 
called tastes, of the experiences of pressure and of tempera- 
ture in what is named touch, and of the consciousness of 
extensity and pressure in the experience of smoothness or of 
roughness. 

Assimilation is the negative unity, that is, absence of dis- 
crimination, in an experience reflectively analyzable into 
simpler experiences of which one (at least) is a recurring 

* Cf. Chapter III., p. 59. 



Fusion and Assimilation 65 

consciousness, cerebrally excited. As I look, for example, 
at a polished marble or at a velvet cloak, I get (besides the 
experiences of color and form, light and shade) a distinct 
impression of its texture, even though I do not touch it. Such 
a texture-feeling is, of course, cerebrally excited (for the end- 
organs in my fingers are not stimulated) , and I explain it as 
due to my past simultaneous experience of similar light-effects 
with feeling of roughness or of smoothness. Every adult per- 
ception is an assimilation as well as a fusion of simpler experi- 
ences. I perceive the automobile, — that is, I am conscious 
of its color, form, and motion, — though the only experience 
peripherally excited is the auditory consciousness of puffing 
and ringing. And I perceive the orange which the child in 
the street-car seat behind me is eating, — I am conscious of 
its color, and roundness, and rough, cool ' feel,' — though 
only my olfactory end-organs are excited. The reason in 
both cases is that I have often before received simultane- 
ously the different sorts of impression. It follows, of course, 
that every perception is the result not only of present 
stimulation but of past experience: that a man per- 
ceives more than a child, and a child than a savage. The 
baby, for example, burns his hand because his visual 
perception of flame does not include the assimilated con- 
sciousness of heat; and the West Indian negro carries the 
wheelbarrow on his head because his perception of it does 
not include the assimilated consciousness of its being 
wheeled.* 



* The term 'assimilation' is used, in this section, as equivalent to 'simul- 
taneous association.' For the distinction often made between these expres- 
sions, see Appendix, Section VII. (§1). For discussion of Successive 
Association, see Chapter VII. 
F 



66 A First Book in Psychology 

B. Perception and Imagination as Realized Combi- 
nation AND Differentiation 

Perception, like imagination, is sensational consciousness, 
and is, thus, a unity in the negative sense that the perceiver 
fails to differentiate elements of consciousness which are 
distinguishable to after-reflection. But both perception and 
imagination include also a certain consciousness, very often 
vague and unemphasized, of the connectedness, the harmony, 
the ' together-ness ' (to borrow a term from Dickens), and 
at the same time of the distinctness, of sense-elements. These 
experiences of unity and of distinctness may be called forms 
of elemental relational consciousness. They are more promi- 
nent in recognition, in thought, and in will than in perception 
and imagination; and the detailed discussion of them will 
consequently be postponed to later chapters.* Yet the con- 
sciousness of combination, or together-ness, and of distinct- 
ness, or apartness, form a part of certain experiences so pre- 
dominantly sensational that they are best treated as forms of 
perception and imagination. Three such experiences form 
the topic of this chapter, but only one of these, the conscious- 
ness of space, will be considered in any detail. 

I. The Consciousness of Space 
a. The Elements of the Space Consciousness 

My consciousness of space is analyzable into elements of 
three sorts : first and foremost, the sensational consciousness, 
visual or tactual, of mere extensity or bigness ; second, certain 
relational experiences of distinctness and unification; third, 
the sensational experiences, mainly tactual, due to move- 

* Cf. Chapter VIII., pp. 127 ff. 



The Consciousness of Space 67 

ment of my limbs, or eyes, or body. The elementary con- 
sciousness of extensity or bigness is fused with our visual 
consciousness of color and colorless light and with our tactual 
consciousness of pressure. That is to say, we are conscious 
both of colors and of pressures as extended.^ The conscious- 
ness of this blue or of this heavy object as more or less extended 
is, however, an indefinitely less complex experience than that 
which we call the consciousness of space. Such a conscious- 
ness of 'mere extensity' — a constituent, we may suppose, 
of the experience of the new-born child when his retina or 
hand is stimulated — is not a consciousness of precise size, 
of definite form, or of exact position ; it is not even a conscious- 
ness of surface or of depth ; it is a vague, unrelated, elemental 
consciousness, to be compared, perhaps, with such spatial 
consciousness as a grown person has when opening his eyes 
in a dark room. Yet the elemental consciousness of extensity 
is the centre and core of the complex experiences of spatial 
form and position. 

b. The Consciousness of Distance, or Apartness 

The simplest form of my complex spatial consciousness is 
the experience, visual and tactual, of apartness or distance.^ 
I see, for example, that my ink-bottle stands apart from my 
paper-weight ; and I am conscious, with closed eyes, that the 
collar and the cuff which chafe me are apart from each other. 
Some psychologists have regarded the experience of apartness 
as an elemental consciousness incapable of further analysis, 
but careful introspection will disclose that it is made up of a 
consciousness of the two-ness, or duality (of sense objects or 
qualities) fused with a consciousness of intervening exten- 
sity. Thus, when I perceive that a red dot lies apart from 



68 A First Book in Psychology 

a blue dot, I am simultaneously conscious (i) of the redness 
and the blueness, (2) of their distinctness, and (3) of a certain 
extensity (that of a portion of the sheet on which the dots are 
written) as (4) condition of the distinctness of the dots. I 
am conscious, in other words, of extensity intervening be- 
tween two colors. And when, with eyes closed, I am con- 
scious that a warm object lies, at some distance from a cold 
object, on my arm, I experience the cold and the warmth, 
the distinctness, or two-ness, of them, and, once more, an 
intervening extensity. The nature and conditions of this 
complex experience of apartness must be studied in some- 
what more detail. To begin with the experience of two- 
ness: light-stimuli falling about .004 to .006 millimetre 
apart on the retina are realized as two.^ With cutaneous 
stimulation the case is different. Experiment has shown 
that the consciousness of two-ness does not follow on a two- 
fold stimulation of closely contiguous spots on all parts of 
the skin. If two points be placed upon any surface of the 
skin, some distance may be found at which they will excite 
the consciousness, not of two pressures, but of a single one. 
This distance varies in different localities, and is smaller on 
the mobile organs: about one millimetre, for example, on 
the tongue, two millimetres on the finger-tips, and sixty-five 
millimetres on the middle of the back. The areas within 
which two points are felt as one are called ' sensory circles, ' 
and it is important to notice that they are relatively, not 
absolutely, defined. That is to say, the skin is not mapped 
off into definite portions, such that a point near the edge of 
one portion is felt as distinct from a very near point which, 
however, is over the border of the given ' sensory circle.' On 
the contrary, the distance between any two points felt as one 



The Consciousness of Distance 69 

must be virtually the same in neighboring regions of the 
skin.* 

The condition of the consciousness of two-ness is evidently, 
therefore, double excitation of skin and retina (providing 
always that the stimulating objects be at sufficient objective 
distance from each other) . The consciousness of an extensity 
as separating or intervening between these distinct stimuli 
cannot be so simply explained. It will be convenient to 
consider first the cutaneous and next the visual intervening 
extensity. (i) There is no objective, or physical, stimulus, 
of the experience of an extensity * between' two pressures: 
two separated points touch my skin, and the intervening 
surface is not stimulated. Yet I am conscious of interven- 
ing extensity. The explanation is probably the following : 
When two points touch my skin, I not only perceive the pres- 
sure and the two-ness, but I imagine the extended pressure 
of an object stimulating the intervening extensity. This 
imagination of an intervening extensity is probably to be 
explained by the fact that the two pressure organs have most 
often been excited not by separate points, but by a single 
object exciting both at once.f On the physiological side, the 
explanation probably is the following: Nerve excitation 
spreads from the place of excitation to contiguous nerve- 
tracts, especially to those which have been frequently excited 
together. Therefore, the cerebral excitation due to the stim- 
ulation of separated points of the skin tends to rouse the 
cerebral excitation corresponding to the frequent stimulation 
of the intervening area of the skin. 

(2) The case of the visual consciousness of intervening 

* For experiment, cf. Sanford, 7; Seashore, pp. 74 ff.; Titchener, § 49; 
Myers, op. cit., Exps. 103-104. 
t Cf. above, p. 65. 



70 A First Book in Psychology 

extensity appears more simple. The extensity which is real- 
ized as separating the red and the blue dots is that of the 
white background ; and in retinal terms, end-organs or sub- 
stances, between those stimulated by the red and blue light 
are excited by white light. The problem, here, is to explain 
why — when the whole retina is stimulated by the white light 
from the paper background — just this particular part of the 
stimulating background should be realized as in especial 
relation to the red and the blue dots; in other words, why 
this particular part of the total consciousness of extended 
whiteness should be combined with the consciousness of dis- 
tinct red and blue. Again the explanation may be given in 
terms of habitual experience. We are accustomed to the 
sight of objects with edges in accentuated color; and we see 
the 'middle ground' of these objects as extensity intervening 
between the two borders. We therefore gain the habit of 
regarding that part of a background which lies between 
lines, or even between dots, rather than any other part of 
the background, as related to these lines or dots. 

c. The Consciousness of Form 
I. Of Two-dimensional Form 

My spatial consciousness is more than a mere awareness of 
extensity and apartness. I am at this moment, for example, 
conscious not only that my letter-paper has bigness and lies 
apart from my penwiper, but also that the paper is oblong 
and the penwiper round; and I am furthermore conscious 
that the paper is flat and the ink-bottle cubical. I am con- 
scious, in other words, of two-dimensional and of three- 
dimensional form. 

The consciousness of form differs from other sorts of spatial 



The Consciousness of Form 71 

consciousness in that it explicitly includes the experience of 
unification of points. 'The point' is 'the apart'; the form 
is a unification of points. The consciousness of two-dimen- 
sional form is almost certainly due, in part, to the movements 
made by eyeballs or hand in outlining or tracing an ob- 
ject; and probably, also, includes a vague consciousness of 
these outlining movements. Such movements are instinc- 
tively performed as one perceives an object.* When I am 
visually conscious of my paper as rectangular and then of my 
pen wiper as round, my eyeballs make two series of move- 
ments, characteristically and markedly differing from each 
other. If with closed eyes I am tactually conscious of these 
objects, my finger makes (or starts to make) in the one case 
a broken movement, in the other a sweeping movement, 
as it follows their outlines. Such outlining movements, 
whether of eye or of hand, may be more or less completely 
executed. The baby, who is finding out that the plate is 
round, continues the outlining, exploring movement of his 
finger all about its circumference. The grown person may 
make merely the first part of the movement; or he may 
make a slight and unnoticed movement ; or, finally, he 
may have merely a tendency to movement, that is, an ex- 
citation of motor neurones, without any actual muscular 
contraction. But without doubt these movements (of eye- 
balls, hands, and tongue) play an important part in the 
development of the space-consciousness. The unattended-to 
experience of such movements (whether performed, and thus 
perceived, or merely imagined) probably constitutes a part of 
my complex consciousness of two-dimensional, or surface, 

* For experiment, cfo L, Witmer, "Analytic Psychology," Exp. XVIL, 
pp. 61 ff. 



72 



A First Book in Psychology 



forms. The experience of surface-form may, thus, be de- 
scribed as a fusion of (i) the sensational experiences of ex- 
tensity and of sense quality due to excitation of end-organs 
by stimulating object ; (2) the relational experiences of distinct- 
ness and of unification; and (3) the experiences, also sensa- 
tional, due to the instinctive movements of the eyeballs and 
hand. 

A study of geometrical illusions ^ testifies indirectly to the 
importance, in our consciousness of form and direction, of the 

unattended-to consciousness of 
pressure due to eye move- 
's ments. Illusions due to over- 
estimation of small angles 
furnish a good example. The straight line, a-h, for instance, 
seems to run upward slightly from each end toward c, and 
the parallel lines fg and hi 
seem to diverge in the 
middle of the figure. This h^ 
is presumably because the 

smaller angles, acd^ hce,fklj A variation by Hering of the Zollner figure. 





hmn, and the others, are 



(From Sanford, after Ladd.) 



overestimated ; and this overestimation seems to be due to an 
attraction of the eye, as it follows the horizontal line inward 
toward the oblique lines. An inattentive consciousness of 
these movements seems to be part of a consciousness of form. 

2. The Consciousness of Three-dimensional Form 

The consciousness of three-dimensional or depth form has 
still to be discussed.® I am conscious not only of rectilinear 
and circular figures, but of cubical and spherical forms. 
Our present problem concerns the nature and the^ conditions 



The Consciousness of Form 73 

of this experience of depth. Some psychologists hold that it 
is an elementary experience, differing from the consciousness 
of surface-extensity somewhat as the consciousness of red 
differs from that of green. The more usual and, in the view 
of the writer, the truer opinion is the following: The con- 
sciousness of depth-form is not an elementary and unanalyz- 
able experience; rather, it is a consciousness of two-dimen- 
sional form fused with a very complex but very vague con- 
sciousness of the bodily movements necessary for apprehen- 
sion of the object. These movements are either movements 
of the body-as-a-whole, or (in the case of such three-dimen- 
sional objects as are within grasp) movements of arm and 
hand outward from the body. Thus, the consciousness of 
the three-dimensional form of a house includes a conscious- 
ness of my body moving toward it and around it; and the 
consciousness of the depth-form, the specifically cylindrical 
character, of a barrel probably includes a dim consciousness 
of the movements by which I explore its form, as out- 
ward from my body. The notable feature of the conscious- 
ness of solid or depth-form is thus not the occurrence or con- 
sciousness of bodily movements, — for this belongs also to 
the experience of surface-form, — but the realized character 
of these movements as either motions of the body-as-a-whole 
or as movements of one of the limbs from or toward the rest 
of the body. ; ^n^ 

It is important to realize that this consciousness of the body, 
which is so inherent a part of the consciousness of depth, 
is not instinctive but, rather, very gradually developed. I, 
grown-up person, feel — let us say — the pressure of one hand 
which I lay upon the other. The Httle baby may make a 
precisely similar movement of his hand and may gain a pre- 



74 A First Book in Psychology 

cisely similar touch consciousness. But he has not yet con- 
sciousness of his hand or of his body ; that is to say, he does 
not connect the visual consciousness (the 'look') with the 
tactual consciousness (the ' feel') of his hand at rest ; nor does 
he connect the tactual consciousness, due to excitation of 
joint and muscle, of his moving hand with the visual appear- 
ance of it. Indeed he does not realize the identity of hand at 
rest with moving hand ; and still less is he conscious of any 
connection between hand, foot, and head. Not till the baby 
becomes conscious of all these experiences as related, and as 
relatively permanent, or reproducible, has he a consciousness 
of his hand ; and in similar fashion he must gain the conscious- 
ness of other parts of the body, and of the body as a unified 
whole. 

An important condition of the depth consciousness is the 
occurrence of right and left eye images differing slightly. 
The experience of closing first one eye, then the other, when 
looking directly at a solid object, will convince every one that 
the right 'sees' slightly more to the right of a given object, 
the left eye rather more to the left of the object. The facts 
of stereoscopy ^ prove that the simultaneous occurrence of 
such images is followed by the depth consciousness; for in 
looking through a stereoscope with eyes unmoving and 
parallel, pictures drawn separately for right and for left eye 
fall upon the two retinae; and I see the pictured object as 
single and solid.* The occurrence of right and left images 
is not, however, an essential or invariable condition of the 
consciousness of tridimensional form, for experiment shows 
that, with one eye closed, I may perceive depth. In this case 
a muscular change in the accommodation, and thus in the 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 212 ft'.; Seashore, p. 53; Titchener, §42. 



Localization 75 

refractiveness, of the eye may condition the depth experience ; 
or some visual character, perhaps the distribution of shadow 
on the object, may suggest it * 

d. Localization: The Consciousness of Position 

My spatial consciousness includes, finally, the consciousness 
of position. I am conscious not only that the paper is oblong 
and the ink-bottle cubical; but also that the ink-bottle lies 
behind the paper and to the right of the letter-scale. I am 
conscious also that the date of my letter is written above the 
signature ; I am conscious that the palm of my hand is touched 
near the thumb by a heated object, and touched near the 
little finger by a cold object ; finally, I am perhaps conscious 
that a piano is being played above me. 

It is evident that cases of localization fall into two classes : 
of three-dimensional and two-dimensional localization, as we 
name them. The experience of the horizon or of the stars 
or of the outgoing ship as far away from me, and the ex- 
perience of the ink-bottle as behind the paper, or of the desk as 
beyond the chair, are cases of three-dimensional locaHzation. 
Experiences of the signature as below the date, or of the cold 
object as inward from the warm object, are instances of the 
consciousness of two-dimensional position. Localization of 
either sort differs from the consciousness of form, in that it 
emphasizes apartness rather than unification. Yet localiza- 
tion, the consciousness of position, is more than mere con- 
sciousness of apartness, for one is sometimes conscious of 
objects as apart without being conscious of their position. 
One is sometimes conscious, for example, of the spatial 
distinctness of two stimulated points of the skin without 

* Cf. below, pp. 77 ff. 



76 A First Book in Psychology 

being able to designate either one as above or below, 
right or left, of the other. In truth, the consciousness of 
position includes, besides the bare realization of apartness, a 
specific consciousness, emphasized or unemphasized, of the 
body or of parts of the body. Thus, ' up ' means ' near the 
head, ' and conversely, ' down ' means ' near the feet.' * Right ' 
means 'toward the more readily moving hand.' 'Out' and 
'in,' 'in front' and 'behind,' are terms used with reference 
to the body as a whole in its relation to the field of vision. 

The difference between the two sorts of localization has been 
suggested in the last paragraph. Three-dimensional local- 
ization — the consciousness that the mountain is far away, 
that the sound is behind me — is a consciousness of the apart- 
ness of an object from my body, and includes the conscious- 
ness of a movement imagined, initiated, or completed, of my 
whole body (or of a limb 'outward' from my whole body). 
Thus, the consciousness that the sky is over me includes a 
vague consciousness of my body floating upward, and the 
consciousness that the cake plate is in front of me includes the 
movement, or tendency to movement, of my arm toward the 
cake plate. In its developed form, three-dimensional locali- 
zation involves a conscionsness of three-dimensional space, an 
image gradually built up by the imagined addition of distance 
to distance, in all directions, from my body. Two-dimen- 
sional localization, the consciousness, for example, that the 
red stripe of the plaid is above the blue one, is conditioned by 
movement (complete or incomplete, imagined or perceived) 
of eye or of hand; but this movement is not an outward 
movement, and the consciousness of body-as-a-whole and of 
space-as-a-whole is lacking. 

Three-dimensional localization in space — the conscious- 



Localization 77 

ness of objects as near or far from my body, as in front or 
behind, to right or to left of me — is of great biological sig- 
nificance. An animal able to react promptly and accurately 
to the sight, sound, or touch which reveals the presence of 
dangerous foe, of friend, or of mate is evidently favored in the 
struggle for existence. It follows that the localizing reactions, 
and the consciousness of them, must have been advanced 
by the extinction of poor localizers and by the preservation 
and propagation of good ones. 

Visual localization is conditioned by muscular changes, 
chiefly of two kinds. When (within certain limits) an object 
is moved nearer or farther from the eyes, there is first a change 
in 'accommodation,' ^ that is, in the contraction of the 
ciliary muscle, such that the crystalline lens of the eye either 
bulges farther forward or is more flattened, thus becoming 
more or less refractive as the object is nearer or farther ; there 
is, second, a change in the convergence of the two eyes such 
that the angle of convergence is more or less acute according 
as the object is farther or nearer.^ As I look, for example, 
from the sail on the horizon to the rosebush at my window- 
sill, my eyes converge. 

Other conditions of the consciousness of visual distance are, 
first, the occurrence of differing retinal images,* and second, 
a number of so-called 'signs' of distance, notably: (i) the 
distribution of shadows, (2) the apparent interference of inter- 
vening objects, and (3) mistiness of the atmosphere. The 
significance of these factors may be shown in many ways. 
Thus, a mask, hollow side to the observer, if so placed that 

* Cf. p. 75, above; and note that changes in accommodation and con- 
vergence may condition consciousness of the depth-form as well as of the posi- 
tion of an object in space. 



78 



A First Book in Psychology 




no shadows are cast inside it, will seldom look concave ; the 
arch in the design here outlined seems to lie behind the pillar ; 
and, since far-away objects appear hazy, hills and trees and 
houses look farther away on a misty day, while the horizon line 
seems almost to strike one in the face on a very clear day. That 
is, indeed, a reason why painters love foggy days and misty 

landscapes more than the high 
lights and brutal frankness of 
phenomenally clear atmospheres. 
In no one of these cases is the 
consciousness of shadows, of 
intervening objects, or of hazi- 
ness a constituent of the experi- 
ence of depth. Rather, these 
experiences have so often accom- 
panied the depth consciousness 
that they at once excite, or suggest, it. 

Auditory localization has next to be considered — the 
experience, for example, that a mosquito is buzzing behind 
me or that a street-car is approaching from the right. Such 
localization may be described as consciousness of the position 
of a sounding object as above or below, before or behind, to 
right or to left, of my body : it includes a vague consciousness 
of a more or less incomplete movement toward the sounding 
object. Recent experimental investigations have concerned 
themselves with the nature and the conditions of auditory 
localization.^" It has been experimentally established that 
sounds from the right or from the left are most readily and 
most correctly localized, that sounds from in front are con- 
stantly confused with sounds from behind, and that sounds 
at the back are localized with greatest difficulty. These facts 



Fig. 5. — (From Sanford, " Ex 
perimental Psychology," p. 205.) 



Localization 79 

are best explained by the hypothesis, experimentally tested, 
that the chief condition of the consciousness of auditory 
position is the comparative intensity of sounds as stimulating 
the right and the left ears. A sound from the right stimu- 
lates the organs of the right ear strongly, those of the left ear 
faintly ; and it calls out a movement or tendency to movement 
of the head toward the right. On the contrary, sounds from 
exactly in front, and also sounds from behind, stimulate 
right and left ears with equal intensity and, for this reason, 
are readily confused. The pecuhar difficulty of localizing 
sounds from behind may be due to the fact that every animal 
instinctively turns to face objects of attention, and has con- 
sequently little experience in localizing sounds at his back. 
The measurement of the mere distance or apartness of sounds 
from my body is mainly, as experiments have shown, an 
inference from the greater or less intensity of the sounds; 
though the consciousness of differences in timbre may con- 
tribute also to the distance consciousness.* 

The main results of this chapter may well be summarized 
in a concluding paragraph : The significant elemental con- 
stituents of the space-consciousness have been found to be : 
first, the sensational consciousness of extensity; second, re- 
lational experiences primarily of distinctness and of unifica- 
tion; third, the tactual sensational experiences due to move- 
ments of the body. The successive stages of the spatial 
consciousness,^ it has appeared, are, first, the consciousness of 
mere apartness — a consciousness of extensity intervening 
between two colors or between two pressures; second, the 
consciousness of form, or unification of separated points; 
third, the consciousness of position either of objects apart 

* For experiments, cf , Seashore, Chapter V. 



8o A First Book in Psychology 

from the body or of objects apart from each other. The 
consciousness of one's body and, in particular, of bodily 
movements has been shown to be an important factor in the 
consciousness of position and of depth. 

The discovery of the importance of movement as condition 
of the space-consciousness, with the realization that a con- 
sciousness of movement is part of many spatial experiences, 
has given rise to a mistaken analysis of the consciousness of 
space — a denial of the occurrence of any elemental con- 
sciousness of extensity. According to this view, the conscious- 
ness of color or of pressure as 'extended,' 'big,' or 'spread 
out' consists solely in a consciousness of bodily movements 
gained by experience of the colored or tactual objects. This 
'empiricist' account of the spatial consciousness must, how- 
ever, be rejected.^ In the first place, it contradicts intro- 
spection, to which the bigness, or spread-outness, of an object 
surely is as distinct and unanalyzable a character as its 
blueness. The empiricist doctrine is in opposition, also, to 
the results of experiments on persons who have recovered, 
through operation, from total congenital blindness. Such 
persons are able to recognize at once a difference between 
round and square objects, seen and not touched. The em- 
piricist theory — that the extensity consciousness consists in 
the consciousness of eye or of hand movements — is founded 
on a correct analysis of our consciousness of form and of 
position, and on the correct observation that we learn, by 
experiejice only, to estimate sizes and to measure our move- 
ments to the actual distances of objects. But the proof of 
the significance of movement and the consciousness of move- 
ment, in our complex and developed consciousness of space, 



The Consciousness of Harmony 8i 

is no disproof of the occurrence of the elemental experience 
of extensity. 

II. The Consciousness of Harmony 

A second perceptual experience of combination with dif- 
ferentiation — a consciousness, as Ebbinghaus calls it, of 
'unity in diversity' — is that of auditory harmony/^ This 
consciousness of the differentiated unity of tones must be dis- 
tinguished carefully from tonal fusion. When one vibrating 
body, a string, rod, or plate of some musical instrument, is 
set into motion, the untrained listener is conscious of a tonal 
fusion, a sound in which he does not distinguish different 
elements of pitch, but hears only the one pitch. The tone 
which he hears may, to be sure, be different from that which 
he would hear if the string vibrated only as a whole; but 
he knows this difference (if, indeed, he is aware of it at all) 
as voluminousness or timbre, not as a combination of differ- 
ent pitch-elements.* The trained listener, on the other hand, 
is conscious of a unity of differentiated elements ; and among 
these he recognizes not a single pitch, but several. These 
distinct elements of pitch are due to the fact that the vibrat- 
ing body vibrates both as a whole and also (more swiftly) in 
sections, t 

It thus appears that, for the trained listener, consciousness 
of harmony, that is, of a unity of different pitch-elements, is 
produced by the vibration in sections of a single vibrating 
body. In place of a fusion he experiences that combination 
of a lower, stronger tone, the fundamental, with one or more 
higher tones called overtones, partials, or harmonics. The 

* For experiment, cf . Sanford, 87 a. 
t For experiment, cf . Sanford, 88. 



82 A First Book in Psychology 

lowest of these overtones is always at least an octave higher 
than the fundamental, that is to say, its vibration-rate is 
twice as great. For example, if the C-string of a violin be 
vibrated, the trained listener may hear a combination of the 
pitch-element C, its octave c, the g above the octave, and the 
c, e, and g of the next higher octave. 

(2) But untrained as well as trained listeners are conscious 
of harmony when, in the second place, combinations of air- 
waves are due to the simultaneous vibration of several dif- 
ferent bodies, instead of being due to the sectional vibration 
of a single body — string, rod, or plate.* The consciousness 
of harmony is, in fact, physically conditioned by a combina- 
tion of air-waves such that their vibration numbers stand to 
each other in uncomplicated ratios as 1:2 or 2:3. The 
vibration ratios of the modern musical octave are : — 

CDEFGABC 

8 9 10 lof 12 i3i 15 16 

The so-called perfect intervals are accordingly: the oc- 
tave (C-c), the fifth (C-G), and the fourth (C-F), with 
vibration ratios of i : 2, 2:3, and 3 : 4, respectively. (To the 
untrained listener the octave, even when produced by the 
vibrations of different bodies, is ordinarily a fusion, not a har- 
mony — in other words, the two pitch-elements are not dis- 
tinguished.) 

Besides these perfect intervals or experiences of harmony, 
there are also the 'imperfect intervals' conditioned by the 
major third (C-E), the minor third (C-t^E), the major sixth 
(C-A), and the minor sixth (C-t?A), with vibration ratios, 

* For experiment, cf. Titchener, § 45. For consideration of beats ond 
combination-tones, cf. Appendix, Section III., § 20. 



The ^Consciousness of Rhythm and of Melody d>2, 

respectively, of 4 : 5, 5 : 6, 3 : 5, and 5:8. In these experiences 
the consciousness of the difference of the tones is relatively 
emphasized. When this consciousness of difference obliter- 
ates, or almost obliterates, that of unity, the agreeableness 
characteristic of the consciousness of harmony disappears, and 
we have the experience of discord or disharmony, conditioned 
by the union of air-waves of complicated vibration-ratios.^^ 
The principal discordant intervals, with their vibration-ratios, 
are the major second (C-D), the minor second (C-!7D), 
the major seventh (C-B), and the minor seventh (C-t?B), 
with the vibration ratios 8:9, 15 : 16, 8:15, 9 : 16. 

The nature of the physiological processes, excited in the 
end-organs of the ear by these combinations of air-waves, 
and the nature of the cerebral processes, assumed to condi- 
tion the experiences of unity and of difference, are still 
topics of conjecture rather than of established hypothesis. 
The occurrence, however, of the consciousness of the har- 
mony of different tones is indisputable. 

III. The Consciousness of Rhythm and of Melody 

One is conscious of rhythm^^ in dancing, reading poetry, 
playing an instrument, and in watching the dance and listen- 
ing to poem or to music* Such an experience of rhythm 
is a consciousness of the regular alternation of temporally 
distinct sense-phenomena, either bodily movements or sounds. 
It is based on the alternation of regularly varying bodily 
processes — in particular, on the alternations of short inspira- 
tion with long expiration, and of strong with weak pressures 
in walking. To quote from Professor Titchener : " As we run 

* For experiment, cf. Titchener, § 46; Myers, op. cit., Exps. 145-146. 



84 A First Book in Psychology 

or walk, the legs swing alternately, and with each leg swings 
the arm of the opposite side. Here we have the basis of the 
idea of rhythm ; a strong sensation-mass from the leg whose 
foot rests upon the ground, the leg that carries the weight of 
the body, followed at equal intervals by a weak sensation-mass 
from the leg that swings through the air. ... As the leg 
swings, the arm swings; and at the moment that the foot 
is set down, the arm pulls with its full weight upon the 
shoulder. . . ." * 

These natural tactual rhythms are, however, mere alter- 
nations of two bodily phases. Dance-rhythms and auditory 
rhythms — regular alternations of sounds, weaker and 
stronger, longer and shorter, are capable of much greater, 
variation and are consequently far more complex. The unit 
of musical rhythm is a measure; measures are combined in 
phrases; and phrases are grouped in musical periods. The 
unit of word-rhythm is a poetic foot; and verse and stanza 
are progressively complex combinations of poetic feet. The 
consciousness of these more complex rhythms is an experience 
of group within group. 

It is important to observe that auditory and motor rhythms 
are normally combined. The chorus-dance, out of which the 
drama developed, is an expression of this close relation be- 
tween the sensory and the motor nerve structures, which we 
illustrate whenever we keep time, with hand or foot, to music. 

The consciousness of melody is a complex experience of a 
rhythmic series of harmonious tones in which the harmony 
is successive, not simultaneous. As in the case of the rhythm- 
consciousness, the unified terms are temporally distinct. 

* "A Primer of Psychology," revised edition, 1899, § 47. 



Perception as Combination 85 

Fundamental, therefore, to both experiences, that of rhythm 
and of melody, is the consciousness of time, an unsensational 
experience which will later be discussed.* 

C. Perception and Imagination as Combination of 
Limited Groups of Sense-elements 

The study of all these forms of perceptual unity shows 
clearly that in perception and imagination the consciousness 
of unity and of difference is combined with a limited group 
of sense-elements — that is, with a part only of the total 
sensational experience of the moment. Another way of 
stating this contrast between the sensational experience as 
undifferentiated total and perception as limited complex is 
in terms of the object of each. The merely sensational con- 
sciousness conditioned by any combination of physical stimuli 
has an object^ the undistinguished mass of colors, sounds, pres- 
sures, and the like. The perceptual consciousness conditioned 
by the same stimuli has differentiated objects. -\ The distinction 
may be illustrated by comparing my consciousness at this 
moment with that of the baby whom I am holding in my arms. 
His sensational consciousness may be as rich as my own, for 
he is sensationally conscious of a totality of colors, bright- 
nesses, bignesses, tones, and noises; but he has not yet the 
perception of objects. The object of his consciousness is, 
rather, in the often-quoted words of James, a ' great, blooming, 
buzzing confusion of undistinguished colors and sounds.' 
This is an experience which the adult occasionally approxi- 
mates — for example, when he enters from the dark a brightly 

* Cf. Chapter VIII., p. 131. 
t Cf. Chapter V., p. 88. 



86 A First Book in Psychology 

lighted room and no object stands out from the dazzling con- 
fusion of light and color ; * or when, in his first waking 
moments, he is vaguely conscious of colors, warmth, pres- 
sures, and sounds which, as he slowly wakens, seem to range 
and round themselves into wall, furniture, bed-coverings, 
and knock-upon-the-door. In a word, perception, like im- 
agination, is the consciousness not of an undifferentiated 
totality but of differentiated objects. And the differentia- 
tion, the realization of different groups of qualities as making 
up each distinct object, is plainly due to the habitual occur- 
rence of certain experiences in close connection. So, when 
the experiences of wetness, whiteness, warmth, and sweetness 
have often enough coincided, the baby has the consciousness 
'of milk; and when the experiences of redness, softness, 
woolliness, and roundness have often enough occurred to- 
gether, he is conscious of the ball. The outcome of this 
chapter is, then, to amplify the account of perception and 
imagination by regarding each as the fusion and assimilation 
of a limited group of sense-elements with the consciousness of 
unity and of difference. 

* Cf. Judd, ''Psychology: General Introduction," p. 172. 



CHAPTER V 

THE BODILY REACTIONS IN PERCEPTION AND IMAGI- 
NATION 

Of all so-called external objects, my body stands in closest 
relation to myself. It is related also in a twofold fashion 
to other external objects: through its sense-organs and 
ingoing nerves it is affected by them; through its out- 
going nerves and muscular contractions it affects them. 
Indeed, the physiological process initiated by the exci- 
tation of a sense-organ is unfinished until it is terminated 
in a muscular contraction; in other words, a complete 
physiological process is neither sensory nor motor, but 
sensori-motor.* 

It was shown in Chapter III. that the different modes of 
sensational experience — visual, tactual, and the rest — are 
marked off from one another not only by the excitation of 
different end-organs and of different cerebral areas, but by 
the characteristic bodily movements — of eyeball, hand, 
and tongue — which accompany them. This chapter will 
treat of perceptual bodily reactions and will describe them 

* The student is advised to read, in connection with this chapter (i) on 
sensori-motor reactions : J. R. Angell, " Psychology," Chapter III. (2) On 
habit: W. James, "The Principles of Psychology," Vol. I., Chapter IV., or 
"Psychology, Briefer Course," Chapter X. (3) On instinct: C. L. Morgan, 
" Animal Life and Intelligence," Chapter XL, or " Comparative Psychol- 
ogy," Chapter XII., or James, "The Principles of Psychology," Vol, IL, 
Chapter XXIV., or "Psychology, Briefer Course," Chapter XXV. 

87 



88 A First Book in Psychology 

as coordinated, habitual, relatively immediate, and impul- 
sive. 

(i) The perceptual reaction is distinguished as coordi- 
nated, or unified, from the merely sensational movement. 
The significance of this distinction will be clear if one contrast 
the behavior and the probable consciousness of a little baby 
with that of an older child in the presence of a visual object 
— let us say, of a woolly red ball. The older child fixes his 
eyes upon the ball, follows it, if it is moved toward one side, 
by his eyes and his turning head, and seizes hold of it if 
it is within reach. The week-old baby, far from fixating it, 
does not even converge his eyes upon it, for each eye still 
moves more or less independently of the other ; he does not 
turn his head toward it if it is moved away ; and though his 
hands move aimlessly and may accidentally strike the ball, 
the two hands do not meet on the ball, and there is no co- 
ordination of the complex movements necessary for seizing 
it. Yet the baby is reacting to the ball : his eyeballs make 
more movements, his hands flap more wildly than before the 
ball was held and moved before him. Such a reaction, some- 
times called an 'excess-reaction,' is due to the diffusion of 
incoming nerve-impulses over outgoing nerves and muscles. 
It differs as widely from the unified and coordinated move- 
ment characteristic of perception as the sensational con- 
sciousness of redness differs from the perception of a red 
object.* 

(2) Perceptual and therefore coordinated bodily reactions 
tend, in the second place, to be repeated, that is, to become 
habitual. My reactions, at different times, to the same 
object or class of objects are closely alike. I make the 

* Cf. Chapter IV., p. 85. 



The Bodily Reactions in Perception and Imagination 89 

same jaw-movements whenever I eat, and I hold and move 
my pen in the same fashion every day. These habitual 
movements are, it should be noticed, of twofold origin — 
instinctive or acquired.^ * My pen-movements have been ac- 
quired, that is, learned. The movements which I make in 
eating are, on the other hand, instinctive; and this means 
that they are not acquired. So, a baby instinctively moves 
its hands and eyes, but it acquires the movements of con- 
vergence and of grasping with both hands; and a duck in- 
stinctively enters the water, but learns by imitation to drink. 
Instinctive reactions are racially hereditary and are severally 
characteristic of different animal groups. By far the greater 
number of them become habitual, but some instinctive acts — 
for example, the egg-laying of certain insects — are but once 
performed. Instinctive reactions may be classified, further, 
as movements of withdrawal or of approach ; and move- 
ments of approach are either antagonistic or cooperative. 
Acquired reactions are of two main types : movements learned 
by imitation and reactions learned through purely individual 
experience.^ 

(3) From the habitualness of the perceptual reaction follows 
a noticeable character : its relative immediacy. The reaction 
which accompanies not only perception but also many forms 
of imagination, and even certain kinds of thinking, is rela- 
tively immediate as compared with the reactions distinguish- 
ing reasoning and choice. The distinction between imme- 
diate and delayed activity is, to be sure, relative and not ab- 
solute, but is readily made between extremes of the two classes. 
Hold out an apple — or, for that matter, a caterpillar — to 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
divisions of the Appendix, Section V. 



90 A First Book in Psychology 

a baby of eight months : he will promptly seize it and carry 
it to his mouth. Offer the same dainty to a three-year old : 
he will hesitate. Memories of disagreeable tastes or of sharp 
penalties vie with the impulse to grasp at every object; his 
response, whether of advance or of withdrawal, is hesitating 
and delayed. Or again, shut away in a high cupboard the 
lunch of a hungry dog and of a hungry little boy. The 
dog's response is immediate : he barks, he leaps up into the 
air, he runs madly around the room. For several minutes 
the boy makes no obvious motion ; then he slowly piles foot- 
stool into chair, climbs up and tries to open the cupboard 
door — again a case of delayed as contrasted with relatively 
immediate reaction. These are examples of advantageously 
delayed reactions. In many situations, on the other hand, 
immediate perceptual reactions, to dangerous or to momen- 
tarily favorable environment, are of crucial importance for 
the individual and for the race. 

(4) The observation that the perceptual reaction is relatively 
immediate must not lead to a confusion of it with the reflex 
reaction. A reflex act is an act which follows on a stimulus 
without intervening consciousness. It may be consciously 
performed; in other words, it may be accompanied by con- 
sciousness, but it is not excited, or invariably preceded by, 
consciousness. I sip my coffee at the sight of the brimming 
cup and I move my fan to the sound of the music, that is to 
say, a unified consciousness of the object precedes my reaction 
to it. In technical terms, my perceptual reaction is impulsive, 
not reflex; although the consciousness of reaction is a con- 
stituent of the complete perception. 

This statement leads to a final distinction. A perceptual 
reaction, though impulsive, is not volitional. To pick up one's 



The Bodily Reactions in Perception and Imagination 91 

handkerchief when one has dropped it is an impulsive act 
following on the consciousness of it as it lies on the ground ; 
to throw one's handkerchief to the lions (after the fashion of 
the lady in the poem), that one's lover may risk his life to 
snatch it from them, is a volitional act. Or, again, to pick up 
my cards from the table is an impulsive act, whereas to dis- 
card from a strong and not from a weak suit is a volitional 
act. The distinction is readily stated. Both perceptual 
and volitional reaction are conditioned by consciousness; 
in technical terms, both are ideo-motor acts. But only the 
vohtional, not the perceptual, act is planned or anticipated. 
I do not say to myself : "I will drink this coffee, or move this 
fan," but the bare sight of coffee or of fan excites the habitual 
reaction. The perceptual reaction is sometimes, indeed, 
opposed to my will. For example, I may drink the coffee 
in spite of having definitely planned to delay coffee-drinking 
until after taking my tonic; and I may find myself moving 
my fan, even though I am deeply principled against keeping 
time to music. 

A tabular summary of bodily reactions may conveniently 
conclude this chapter : — 

BODILY REACTIONS 

A. Reflex Movements 

(Immediate: following on stimulus without intervening consciousness.) 
I. Uncoordinated reactions 1 a. Without consciousness^ 

I Performed. 
II. Coordinated reactions J h. With consciousness. 

1. Once performed (Instinctive). 

2. Habitual (or Repeated). 

{a) Instinctive. 
(&) Acquired. 



92 A First Book in Psychology 

B. Ideo -MOTOR Movements 

(With antecedent consciousness; coordinated; repeated.) 
I. Impulsive movements. 

(Unpremeditated; relatively immediate.) 
II. Volitional. 

(Premeditated; delayed.) 

a. Simple. 

b. Deliberative. 



CHAPTER VI 

ATTENTION 

I. The Nature of Attention 

Every one knows that there is a distinction between 
attention and inattention.* Our special problem, at this 
stage of our study, is the nature of attentive perception and 
imagination; but even now we realize that attention is a 
factor also of other experiences. We may profitably begin 
our study by an illustration of perceptual attention. Sup- 
pose that I am perched on a rock, on a sunny September 
afternoon, lazily looking off upon a quiet sea, dotted here and 
there with gleaming sails, some near the shore, others on the 
horizon. I am awake and open-eyed, receptively and sensa- 
tionally conscious. In a word, I am perceiving. Now sup- 
pose that a sloop comes into view around the rocky headland 
at my left. I am no longer impartially conscious of sea and 
of boat ; nor do my eyes wander idly from horizon to shore and 
from shore to horizon again. Rather I bend forward and fix 

* Before reading farther, the student should answer, in writing, the follow- 
ing questions: (i) Name two things to which you naturally (without train- 
ing) gave attention. (2) Name two subjects to which you have learned to 
attend. (3) What bodily movements and attitudes characterize your atten- 
tion to a faint sound ? (4) What bodily movements and attitudes character- 
ize a dog's attention to a faint sound? (5) Describe, in full, your attentive 
consciousness (a) of the irregularity in contour of the period at the end of this 
sentence; and (b) of the boundaries of the state of New York (as you now, 
in imagination, bound the state). 

93 



94 A. First Book in Psychology 

my eyes upon the sloop ; or, to use the everyday expression, 
I concentrate my consciousness on the boat and, so long as 
it remains in view, I am not in the same way conscious of any- 
thing else. In other words, I attend to the boat. And to- 
morrow, when I am altogether unable to tell whether the rocks 
in the foreground were brown or gray and whether the sky 
was clear or cloudy, I shall remember that the boat was a 
yawl-rigged schooner with a black hull. 

But though it is relatively easy to describe an attentive 
experience, its bodily accompaniments, and its psychic effects, 
it will be found impossible to define that special factor of the 
experience which is known as attention.^* Rather, as most 
psychologists implicitly admit, attention is an elemental, a 
further unanalyzable and an indescribable sort of conscious- 
ness. We realize it best by contrasting it with the inattentive 
consciousness, for example, with the drowsy consciousness, 
or with our normal consciousness of objects which stimulate 
only the outer zones of the retina. But we cannot define 
attention or reduce it to more elemental constituents. At- 
tention — is just attention. 

One further statement may be made. Attention, though 
elemental, seems not to be sensational.^ On the side of 
physiological condition it is distinguished by the lack of any 
specific end-organ; and, apart from this physiological dis- 
tinction, attention differs from sensation by being some- 
times present, sometimes absent, from our consciousness. 
In other words, we sometimes attend and, again, we are in- 
attentive, whereas we are always sensationally conscious even 
when, as is usual, we are more-than-sensationally conscious. 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
divisions of the Appendix, Section VI. 



The Objects of Attention 95 

We take account of these differences by calling attention an 
attributive element of consciousness.* 

II. The Objects of Attention 

Since attention is elemental, — and since, therefore, we 
cannot describe attention, even though we know what it is, 

— our further study will turn out to be mainly a study not of 
attention itself but of its objects, conditions, and results. We 
may well begin by considering the objects of attention ; and 
three important statements must be made about them. 
{a) We may attend, in the first place, to objects of any kind 

— personal or impersonal, public or private, externalized 
or non-externalized, sensational, affective, or relational.^ In 
more concrete terms : my attention may be centred on myself 
or on my friend — personal objects, the one private, the other 
public; again, my attention may be directed to Botticelli's 
" Pallas," or to the emotion with which I regard the picture — 
both impersonal objects, the second private and non-external- 
ized, the other public and externalized ; I may attend, finally, 
to the binomial theorem or to my lead pencil — both imper- 
sonal and public objects, but the last only externalized. It 
follows that all kinds of consciousness, perception and emo- 
tion, thought and will, may be 'attentive,' accompanied by 
attention. Certain forms of consciousness are indeed, as 
will appear, necessarily and inherently attentive. 

(Jb) The object of attention is, in the second place, always 
a relatively stable, or persistent, object. In inattentive per- 
ception, my eye moves from object to object; in inattentive 
imagination, one image follows on another in a swift succes- 

* Cf. Chapter XI., p. 173; Chapter XII., p. 223 ; and Appendix, Sec- 
tion III., § 34. 



96 A First Book in Psychology 

sion. In attentive perception, on the other hand, my eyes are 
fixed on the unmoved object and move only to follow the 
moving thing; and in attentive imagination I linger over 
the imaged object or scene. In apparent opposition to this 
teaching, stress is sometimes laid on a fluctuation in objects 
of attention : it is asserted that one cannot attend longer than 
a few seconds to any sense-object. But though it is true that 
the fixated color grows alternately bright and dull, and that 
the sound to which I listen is now loud and again soft, 
yet these phenomena, classed as fluctuations of the objects 
of attention, are really only fluctuations in the intensity of 
sounds, colors, and the like. Such fluctuations are partly 
explained, perhaps, by oscillations in the contraction of the 
muscular apparatus of sense-organs, but are mainly due to 
'the oscillatory character of psychophysical processes in 
general ' * — to the rhythmic changes, for example, in blood 
pressure. 

It should be added that the object of attention may be 
stable, or prolonged, while yet attention may be relatively 
unstable. The object of attention is always stable in com- 
parison with a similar object of the inattentive consciousness 
— for example, if I attentively observe a tree from a carriage, 
I turn my head and prolong my view of it. But my attention 
during this drive may well be more unstable, that is, inter- 
rupted by inattention, than the attention with which I sit 
rapt by some great picture. In its extreme form, prolonged 
attention is absorption, a complete merging of oneself in the 
object of one's consciousness so that the restless flow of 
consciousness is checked and the world narrows to the observ- 
ing self and this one object. Esthetic, logical, and purely 

* C. S. Myers, "Text-Book -of Experimental Psychology," p. 321. 



The Objects of Attention 97 

personal experiences are characterized by attention in this 
supreme form, and such attention is always a relatively endur- 
ing consciousness. 

{c) The object to which I attend is, in the third place, a 
part only, not the whole, of the total object of my conscious- 
ness at any moment. Thus, to recur to our initial example, I 
do not attend simultaneously to rock and ocean and sloop. 
On the contrary, while I attend to the bellying, flapping 
canvas I am inattentively conscious of the sea and of the rock. 
Or, to take another example, I attend not to the whole side 
of the room but to the desk; perhaps not to the desk but 
to the polished brass inkstand; or, finally, not even to 
the whole inkstand but to its carved griffin-top. I may 
even attend to a single inseparable element or factor of a 
given object — to the redness of the rose, to the novelty 
of my surroundings, to the pleasantness of my emotional 
experience, to the causal connection between stimulus and 
movement. 

No exact Hmits have been so far set by experimental ob- 
servation to the complexity of the object of attention. In 
general, any group of terms which can be unified can be 
attended to. Experimenters, as well as every-day observers, 
have concerned themselves with this problem, and have proved 
abundantly that small objects, too numerous to be separately 
attended to, are attentively perceived if combined into a pat- 
tern or scheme. If, for example, one drop a screen for less 
than one quarter of a second (an interval so short that it 
excludes eye-movements), thus exposing a surface on which 
five or six small crosses have been drawn, in irregular order, 
one will find that attentive observers often fail in telling the 
number of the crosses, whereas they can reproduce the figure 



98 A First Book in Psychology 

made by the crosses. This shows that the observers attended 
not to the single figures (the crosses) but to the complex 
figure, or scheme, composed of all the crosses.* About half a 
dozen small objects can thus be unified and attended to. 
Some psychologists believe that we may attend also to two (or 
at most to three) independent objects; and to the introspec- 
tion of the writer this seems true. One may train oneself, 
for example, to attend simultaneously to a fixated visual 
object and another object seen in indirect vision; and it is 
impossible to unify these. Most cases, however, of so-called 
'divided' attention are either instances of the simultaneous 
occurrence of attentive consciousness and a merely reflex 
action, — as when one writes a letter while one mechanically 
hums a tune or repeats a series of numerals, — or else 
instances of alternating attention. Julius Caesar did not 
really dictate four letters while writing a fifth, but his 
attention vibrated from one to another; and the phe- 
nomenal chess-players shift their attention from one to 
another of the games which they are said to play ' sirnul- 
taneously.' t 

Attention to part of one's total object of consciousness of 
course implies inattention to the rest. The ' absent-minded' 
person, who is blind and deaf to the sights and sounds of 
his environment, is inattentive to them precisely because he 
is attentive to something else, for example, to some imagined 
scene or more ideal project. The narrower the object of my 
attention, the more 'absent-minded' I become. Sometimes, 
indeed, this negative aspect of attention, the glaring inatten- 

* For other experiments, cf. L. Witmer, "Analytic Psychology," p. 54, 
Exp. XVI.; Titchener, § 38, p. 113 (4); Seashore, p. 165 £f. 
t For experiment, cf. Seashore, p. 164. 



The Objects of Attention 99 

tiveness of the person meanwhile absorbed in emotion or 
calculation or landscape, is more significant than his 
attentiveness. 

{d) The discovery that one attends to a part only of the 
total object of consciousness at once suggests the question: 
To what part ? The answers to this question may, perhaps, 
reduce themselves to three. It is a matter of common obser- 
vation that I attend (i) to the pleasant or unpleasant — for 
example, to the compliment which some one pays me or to my 
toothache ; and (2) to the novel, or unusual, for example, to the 
figure of a turbaned Hindu in an Oxford audience which fills 
the Sheldonian theatre. My attention to a sensationally in- 
tense object, for example, to a thunder-clap, and my attention 
to a moving object, for example, to a flying bird or to a moving 
signal, are cases of attention to the surprising or unusual. 
P inally (3) I attend to that part of my total field of conscious- 
ness which is connected with other objects of my attention. 
If I am studying the problem of immigration from Southern 
Europe I notice the most casual newspaper references to 
Slavs and to Italians, and I remember the southern type of this 
or that face in a crowd. If I have hurried the carpenters out 
of the house which they are building for me, by helping to 
fill with putty the holes left by the nails in the woodwork, then 
for weeks I mark the variations of color between wood and 
putty in the wainscotings and furnishings of the houses which 
I visit. No one of these three characters invariably distin- 
guishes the object of attention — one may attend to the dull 
color or the soft sound; an object closely connected with our 
ordinary interests may be unattended to ; and finally — though 
psychologists are not in agreement on this point — one may 
attend to an object which is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. 



lOo A First Book in Psychology 

But though the object of attention is not inevitably distin- 
guished by each of these characters, it is probably always 
describable in at least one of these ways : it is pleasant or 
unpleasant, or else novel, or it is closely connected with 
experience. 

III. The Classes, Conditions, and Results of 
Attention 

A common classification of attention is as (i) natural or 
instinctive, and (2) acquired. It will be observed that this 
distinction does not imply any difference in the nature of the 
two sorts of attention. Natural and acquired attention do not 
differ at all, regarded merely as attention. The difference 
lies simply in the fact that attention of the first sort is instinc- 
tive, untaught, whereas attention of the second sort is ac- 
quired through individual experience or through imitation.* 
All natural attention is evidently, therefore, involuntary. 
Acquired attention is either involuntary or voluntary, that is, 
willed. To illustrate: five minutes ago I was instinctively 
attentive to the whistle of the incoming steamer ; whereas I 
willed my present acquired attention to this chapter on at- 
tention. If I were attending neither to the whistle nor to 
the scientific discussion, but to a thrilling page of some novel, 
my attention would be acquired, indeed, — for a printed page 
is not naturally interesting, — but involuntary. Natural at- 
tention is in fact directed to objects which are unusual, 
pleasant, or unpleasant. The objects of acquired attention 
are, directly or indirectly, connected or associated with these. 
We have, thus, the following classification of attention as — 

* Cf. Chapter V., p. 89. 



The Classes, Conditions, and Results of Attention loi 

I. Natural, or Instinctive (always Involuntary) to 
a. The pleasant or unpleasant. 
h. The novel. 
II. Acquired 

Involuntary! to the object associatively connected 
Voluntary J with an object naturally attended to. 

The relation between will and attention, which is sometimes 
denied, will be further discussed in a later chapter.* It is, 
however, immediately clear that acquired attention is of 
great practical significance. If our attention were purely in- 
stinctive, we should go on through life enlarging our primary 
childhood interests — absorbed in the objects, brilliant, 
novel, or pleasant, of our immediate perception. We ac- 
quire new interests through our ability to compel ourselves 
to attend to what is normally uninteresting and unattended to. 
Thus, voluntary attention attests the power of intellectual 
development. As Professor Barrett Wendell says: "The 
practical aim of a general education is such training as shall 
enable a man to devote his faculties intently to matters which 
of themselves do not interest him. The power which enables 
a man to do so is obviously the power of voluntary, as dis- 
tinguished from spontaneous, attention." 

Of the bodily conditions of attention there is little to be 
said. There are evidently no end-organ excitations of at- 
tention. And though we are justified by physiological anal- 
ogy in postulating some special neural condition of attention, 
the physiologists speak in vague and more or less divergent 
terms of the nature of such a neural process. Some sort of 
special 'preparedness of brain-centres' must be assumed to 
exist. The characteristic muscular contractions which ac- 

* Cf. Chapter XIII., p. 227. 



102 A First Book in Psychology 

company attention are more readily described. They are of 
two sorts : in the first place, contractions, usually instinctive, 
of the muscular apparatus of the sense-organs, tending to 
adapt these organs to the conditions of distinct consciousness. 
For example, we instinctively change the convergence or the 
accommodation of our eyes in order to obtain a distincter out- 
line of the object which interests us; we turn our heads tow- 
ard the source of the music to which we are attending; and 
we follow a moving object with our eyes. Muscular contrac- 
tions of this sort are, of course, peculiar to sense-attention. 
A second class of muscular contractions is characteristic of 
all sorts of attention — such contractions, namely, as prevent 
disturbing movements of any sort. The rigidity and stillness 
of the body is, indeed, an obvious accompaniment of attention. 

In the successive sections of this chapter attention has 
been described as elemental 'attributive' consciousness; the 
object of attention has been distinguished as a relatively 
stable part of the total field of consciousness and as sensation- 
ally novel, or affectively toned, or associatively connected; 
attention has been distinguished as instinctive or acquired, 
involuntary or voluntary, and, finally, the bodily correlates 
of attention have been indicated. It remains to speak briefly 
of what may be named the results of attention. First and 
most important is the normal recurrence of the attentive 
consciousness. In concrete terms, we are likely to remember 
what we attend to, and, conversely, we forget what we inat- 
tentively experience.* 

In the second place, attention determines the direction of my 

* For experiments, cf. E. L. Thorndike, "The Elements of Psychology," 
p. 107, Exps. 10 and 11. 



The Classes, Conditions, and Results of Attention 103 

imagining; it forms, in a word, the starting-point of associa- 
tion. The next chapter will lay more stress on the relation 
of attention to association.* Here we need merely name and 
illustrate this connection. Not the whole experience of a 
given moment, but the emphasized, that is, the attentive, part 
of it is likely to form the starting-point of my imagination. 
For example, my outlook on the view from my window is 
probably followed not by the imagining of a closely similar 
landscape, but by the imagination — let us say — of a lighted 
Christmas tree due to my attentive consciousness of the 
evergreen tree near my window. Attention is thus a con- 
dition alike of association and of retention. The chapters 
which follow will make this more evident. 

A word should be said, in conclusion, of the relation be- 
tween interest and attention. The term ' interest ' is best used 
as synonym for involuntary attention. I am interested in the 
objects to which, without effort of will, I attend. 

* Cf. p. 114^ 



CHAPTER VII 

PRODUCTIVE IMAGINATION, MEMORY, SUCCESSIVE AS- 
SOCIATION 

I. Productive and Reproductive Imagination 

This chapter is devoted to the study of imagination from a 
new point of view.* Imagination has, up to this point, been 
described as sensational, unified, and 'private' consciousness 
of particularized objects, and has been classified according to 
sense-types. We are now to take account of the distinction, 
practically and aesthetically significant, between reproduc- 
tive (or recurring) and productive (or inventive) imagination. 
Relatively accurate and complete reproductive imagination is 
called memory. 

It must at once be noted that the ' structural elements ' of 
imagination always are reproduced (that is, repeated) and not 
in any sense 'novel.' They are part of our original endow- 
ment, instinctive forms of consciousness, as we may call them. 
I can imagine no brand-new color, and no new taste. The 
novelty involved in so-called creative imagination is therefore 
a novelty of combination, for one complex experience may 
differ from every previous one, though, taken singly, no ele- 

* Before reading farther, the student should answer, in writing, the follow- 
ing questions: (i) What seems to you to be the difference between imagining 
and remembering? (2) What method would you use in order to memorize 
(a) the objects in a jeweller's window? (b) a Shakespearian sonnet? 

104 



Productive and Reproductive Imagination 105 

ment or part of the ' novel ' experience is new. Every instance 
of creative imagination illustrates this statement. In imagin- 
ing a centaur, one combines the image of a man's head with 
that of a horse's body; in inventing the telegraph, Morse 
prolonged in imagination the image of charged wire, and united 
it with that of vibrating lever and writing point. These are 
instances of the combination of images in themselves far 
from simple. The parts combined may, however, be much 
less complex — mere elements or very simple images. 

The forms of imagination thus provisionally illustrated 
must be more closely considered. Of creative imagination 
two main forms are ordinarily distinguished : the mechanical 
and the organic. The mechanical image is a complex, not of 
qualities, but of relative totals, of experiences complete in 
themselves, as if a painter were to paint a picture of Tuscan 
olive trees on a New England hillside. The organic image 
is a complex of single elements or of fragmentary aspects of 
different objects, which fuse into a new whole of organically 
related parts. Within the class of organic imagination one 
may distinguish, also, the fanciful from the universal imagi- 
nation, on the ground that the first lays stress on more 
or less bizarre and accidentally interesting characters, the 
second on essential, universally appealing qualities. Thus, 
Kipling's description of the "Workers" includes a bold 
fancy : — 

''They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair." 

Miss Jewett employs a similar figure, but the wide appeal of it 
marks the more universal imagination : — 

^^ Madonna mia! if in truth 

Our Raphael from heaven's palaces 



io6 A First Book in Psychology 

Might lean across the centuries 
* ^ * * * * 

Even he might find a study, fair 

I 
As his last fresco in the skies, 

Might pause, untouched of mortal taint, 

One infinite half-hour to paint 
The motherhood in your dear eyes." 

The study of reproductive imagination will involve us in 
more detail. It has already been classified as complete or 
incomplete, accurate or inaccurate. These are relative terms, 
and it is probable, of course, that no case of literally complete 
and accurate reproductive imagination ever occurs. Practi- 
cally complete and accurate imagination is called memory and 
is, as everybody knows, a significant factor in conduct and an 
indispensable basis for thought. The questions, '' How do I 
remember ?" and " How may I foster and, if possible, increase 
my chance of remembering?" assume, therefore, a practical 
importance of high order. The admitted answer to the first 
of these questions is as follows: "I remember through 
association." The meaning of this term we have next to 
discuss. 

11. The Nature of Association 

. Successive association is the sequence of an imagination 
on a perception (or another imagination), a sequence which 
is attributed (in after-reflection) to the previous occurrence, 
simultaneously or in swift succession, of the two experiences.** 

* The term 'association' is often used in the sense of 'successive' associa- 
tion. For the distinction between 'successive' and 'simultaneous' associa- 
tion, cf. Chapter IV., p. 65, with Note, and Appendix, Section VII. (§ 1). 
The Arabic numerals, throughout the chapter, refer to numbered divisions 
of the Appendix, Section VII. 



The Nature of Association 107 

For example, my present memory of a Parisian dinner-table 
— the brightly lighted salle-a-manger, the long table, the 
white-haired hostess — is associated with my present percept 
of a knock on my door, that is, it follows -upon the knock and 
is explained by the fact that, night after night, just such a 
muffled tap from the servant who summoned me preceded 
my consciousness of the dinner-table. 

The most important and obvious classes of association may 
best be described by the terms ' total ' and ' partial.' * ' Total 
association' is that between complex experiences which are 
complete in themselves. It is an external and prosaic sort of 
connection explained as due to the simultaneous or the suc- 
cessive occurrence of 'the same' experiences in the past. 
The association, one after another, of the imaged notes of a 
melody, words of a poem, or implements of a trade, are ex- 
amples of this common form of association which may be 
readily symbolized by the following diagram : — 

Past percept or ... Past percept or 
image of dog image of master 



I I 

Present per- Present image 
cept of dog of master 



In this diagram, the small letter (y) stands for 'image' and 
the capitals stand for 'either percept or image'; the arrow 
designates the fact and the direction of the association, and the 
line connecting X^ and Y^ indicates that the two experiences 

* These terms were suggested by James. The expression 'total' must 
not, of course, be interpreted as if it required that the entire experience of a 
given moment should be associated with the imagination which follows on it. 
On the other hand, the term 'total' covers cases in which the first term of the 
association is very limited in extent, in which, for example, the first term is 
the consciousness of a single word. 



io8 A First Book in Psychology 

occurred either simultaneously or successively; the index 
suggests that X"^ and V are past experiences. 

Partial association is the association of elements of con- 
sciousness or of groups of elements. Its most extreme 
case, which James aptly calls 'focalized association/ is the 
observed connection between one single element and another 
elemental or complex experience. This type of association 
is more varied in form and less obviously attributed to con- 
tinuity in past experience, and must therefore be considered 
in more detail. 

First of all, let us assure ourselves that the partial asso- 
ciation does indeed involve the assumed identity of its terms 
with past experiences, which were either simultaneous or 
successive. We may select, as an extreme instance, the asso- 
ciation implied in these verses of Shelley : — 

''And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue. 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music, so delicate, soft and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense." 

Now, it is in the highest degree improbable that Shelley 
had so often or so vividly experienced together the fra- 
grance of hyacinths and the sound of bells that the one 
should suggest the other. At first sight, therefore, this seems 
to be a case of association which does not involve an assumed 
identity of the connected terms with past experiences occurring 
together. But on closer scrutiny we discover that the actual 
connection, for Shelley, between imagination of sound and 
perception of fragrance was the consciousness of the bell-shape 
of the flower. None of the other elements of the perception of 
the hyacinths, the consciousness, for example, of their color, 
their height, their texture, has any connection with the imagi- 



The Nature of Association 109 

nation of the peal of music. But this connecting link, the 
consciousness of the form of the flowers, is not associated with 
the imagination of sounding bells as a whole, for it is itself 
one element of this imagination ; in fact the only association 
involved is that between (i) the elemental consciousness of 
'bell-shape,' common to both the perception of the fragrant 
hyacinth and the imagination of the pealing bell, and (2) the 
remaining elements of the imagination of the bell, the audi- 
tory imagination of pitch, intensity and volume of tone, and 
the visual imagination of the color and form of the bell. 
This will be made clearer through the following diagram : — 

Past experience of bell — —— « 

ir 



Present percept 

of hyacinth : 
Consciousness of 

I 



Present 

of be 

Consciou 



image 
11: 
sness of 

I 



W{a + h +c) X — ^y {m + n + 0) 

Other qualities Bell- Other qualities 
of hyacinth shape of bell 

Here the Roman numerals, I. and II., represent the total, 
concrete facts of consciousness, the hyacinth-percept and the 
bell-image ; X is the element common to both (the conscious- 
ness of shape) ; y represents the group of elemental imaginings, 
of pitch, intensity, and the like (m, n, and 0), associated by X 
and forming with it the image of the pealing bell ; whereas W 
groups together those elements, the consciousness of color, 
height, and so on (a, b, and c) of the hyacinth-percept, which 
have no part in the association. Comparing this, therefore, 
with the concrete associations, we find that it has the fol- 
lowing distinguishing characteristics : first and foremost the 



no A First Book in Psychology 

starting-point of the association is very narrow, either a 
single element or — as we shall see — a group of elements, 
but never a concrete total. This first term (X) of the as- 
sociation is, in the second place, a part both of the first 
and of the second of the successive, concrete experiences 
(the hyacinth-percept, I., and the image of the bell, II.) and 
the association is, thus, entirely within the second of these 
experiences, the image of the bell. It follows, also, that only 
this second one (II.) of the concrete totals of consciousness 
need be regarded as identical with any former experience; 
in the present case, for example, Shelley need never before 
have seen a hyacinth, but he must already have seen and 
heard a pealing bell, in order to have the association. Finally, 
it is evident that, in cases of successive association, the first 
of the associated elements or groups of elements (X) neces- 
sarily persists in consciousness, whereas the elements com- 
bined with it in the earlier complex (I.) fade gradually away; 
and that the persisting element is then surrounded by the 
added elements (w, n, o) of the second concrete (II.). This 
persistence of the earlier experience, though occurring in 
concrete association, is especially characteristic of the 'par- 
tial' type. 

The connecting term of a partial association (the X) 
may include more than a single element. We have then an 
instance of what may be named 'multiple association.' 
When Wordsworth, for example, says of Milton : — 

"Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart," 

the star reminds him of Milton's soul, not merely by its 
aloofness but by its light. Or, to take a more prosaic 
illustration, if the sight of an Italian salt ship calls up an 



The Nature of Association iii 

image of a Roman trireme, the association is not between 
consciousness of salt ship and of Roman trireme as total 
experiences, for I surely have not been conscious of them at 
one time or in immediate succession on each other. But 
neither does this association start from any single feature of 
the perceived ship. Rather, a highly complex combination 
of elements (falling short, however, of a concrete total) — the 
consciousness of dark hull, of masts, and of rigging — is 
common both to the perception and to the imagination; and 
these factors common to both experiences are associated 
with the images, cerebrally excited, of banks of oars and 
Roman figures, which complete the consciousness of the 
trireme. 

It has thus been shown that the partial, like the total, 
association is accounted for by the assumed identity of 
associated experiences with earlier experiences; but that 
these recurring experiences, instead of being concrete wholes, 
are either elements or groups of elements, which have 
been combined in former perceptions or imaginings — of peal- 
ing bells and of Roman trireme, for example. An association 
should always, therefore, be analytically studied. The im- 
portant point is the determination of its first term, and the 
common error is the supposition that a complex experience 
is invariably to be taken as a whole in tracing the associative 
connection. On the other hand, as we have seen, all sub- 
tler associations are instances of association between more 
or less elemental parts of total experiences. Undoubtedly 
the greater number of associations are of the total sort — 
associations between consciousness of object and of use, 
between the percept of a face and the image of a name, and 
between the terms of verbal and motor series. But the 



112 A First Book in Psychology 

associations which distinguish the imaginative from the 
prosaic type of mind, which are the essence of all metaphor 
and the very heart of humor, belong, all of them, to the 
' partial' type. No opposition is too fixed, no separation 
of time or place too wide, to be bridged by this sort of 
association. 

We have, therefore, the following types of association : ^ * — 

ASSOCIATION 

I. Total or Concrete Association, of complete experiences (with or with- 
out persistence of the first term). 
II. Partial Association, of persisting elements of consciousness: — 

a. Multiple Association (starting from a large group of elements). 
h. Focalized Association (starting from a single element or from 
a small group of elements). 

Before taking up the more practical question of the definite di- 
rectionof association, two theoretical comments must be made. 
It must be pointed out in the first place that one's experiences 
never recur, in the sense that the percepts or images of one 
moment are actually identical with those of a preceding mo- 
ment. On the contrary, my present image of Faneuil Hall, of 
my uncle, or of the date of the fall of Khartoum is quite a 
different event from my earlier perception or image of the 
same building, person, or date. Unquestionably, however, 
I assume a certain ' recurrence ' of the past experience, and this 
assumed identity or recurrence is rightly recognized by the 
psychologist as a character of association. A further dis- 
cussion of the possibility and nature of recurrence would be 
metaphysical. 

A second theoretical remark is the following: evidently 

* The student should not fail to practise himself in the analysis of cases 
of association. For suggestions, cf. Appendix, Section VII. (§ 2). 



The Direction of Association 113 

the study of association involves the distinction, already dis- 
cussed, between (i) my subject-self, the unique and persist- 
ing subject of complex experiences; and (2) these same ex- 
periences regarded as impersonal, though not externalized, 
objects belonging to a special point of time. Such a treat- 
ment proves to be necessary to adequate psychological 
description. It is dangerous only if one forget that the dis- 
tinction of subject- self from its experiences is an abstrac- 
tion — that the experiences never occur except as experienced 
by a self and that a self is not absolutely divorced from, or 
opposed to, but rather inclusive of, these experiences. 

III. The Direction of Association 

The discussion of association has thus made evident the 
close interweaving of partial contents of our complex total 
experience. It is evident that when one of these partial 
experiences 'recurs,' as perception or imagination, some other, 
previously continuous with it, recurs also, as imagination. A 
very vital question concerns the actual direction of association. 
Given a recurring perception or imagination, it has perhaps 
already occurred a score of times in as many different connec- 
tions. Which, then, of the images that might conceivably 
follow on it will actually be associated ? If, for example, the 
sight of a topaz necklace is the starting-point of the associa- 
tion, will it be followed by a vague imagining of Delhi, from 
which it came, by an imagination of the crown jewels in the 
Tower of London, or finally by some mainly verbal image — 
the image, for example, of the words ' topaz necklace ' or of 
the verses — 

"And I would lie so light, so light 
I scarce should be unclasp'd at night." 



114 ^ First Book in Psychology 

Obviously, it is of practical importance to learn, if we can, the 
principles according to which one image rather than another 
is associated ; for thus we may increase the chance of recalling 
what is useful or pleasant rather than the indifferent or harm- 
ful parts of our earlier experience. Now experiment confirms 
the every-day observation that experiences are likely to be 
associated in proportion as they are (i) naturally interesting 
or (2) frequent or (3) recent.* By naturally interesting ex- 
periences are meant those which involve instinctive attention, 
and it has appeared already that the objects of instinctive 
attention — so far as they can be characterized — are sensa- 
tionally intense, or novel, or affectively toned. Two sorts of 
frequency, also, should be distinguished. An experience may 
occur frequently in the same connection — for example, a 
bell may ring thirty times a day, always by pressure of the 
same button ; or the experience may recur frequently but in 
different connections — for example, pressing a button, turn- 
ing a handle, and working a treadle, each a dozen times a day, 
may ring the same bell. Recent experiences need not be 
further classified. 

We may readily find examples of associated imaginings of 
these different sorts. ^ If the sight of the necklace suggests the 
words ' topaz necklace, ' it is because of the frequent connec- 
tion of visual impression and words; if, on the other hand, it 
reminds me of the verses, this is because I was last night re- 
reading "The Miller's Daughter" ; if it suggests an imagina- 
tion of Delhi or of the crown jewels, it is because these are 
images inherently interesting through sensational intensity or 

* Similarly, it is true that, of the percepts or images of a given moment, 
the suggestive one — that which forms the starting-point of association — 
will be interesting, recent, or repeated. 



The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 115 

through emotional thrill. Or, to take another illustration : if 
the sight of a surrey, with yellow awning, reminds me of 
the carriage in which I drove from landing-dock to hotel, in 
Gibraltar, this is because the Gibraltar experience was very 
vivid — sensationally novel and intense as well as markedly 
pleasant ; if the surrey, however, reminds me of the rugged 
Maine farmer who drives it, this is because he yesterday drove 
me to Bar Harbor in it; if, finally, it reminds me of a prosaic 
train-hack, this is because my most frequent drives are to 
and from railway stations.* 

The practical applications of these principles of associa- 
tion will be referred to again in the concluding part of this 
chapter. The discussion of this section may be concluded 
by a brief statement about the probable physiological expla- 
nation of association. In a general way it may be said that 
the physiological condition of association is the excitation of 
intra-cortical fibres connecting different cerebral areas. The 
larger these connected brain-areas, the more nearly 'total' 
is the association; and. the more continuous the cerebral ex- 
citation, the more persistent is the consciousness. It is also 
natural that connecting fibres which have been frequently or 
recently or strongly excited should offer little resistance to the 
excitation ; and in this probability we have the suggestion of 
a physiological basis for the secondary laws of associative 
frequency, recency, and interest. 

IV. The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 

The functions of imagination are by this time evident. By 
reproductive imagination, or memory, I hold to my past; and 

* For experiment, cf. M. W, Calkins, "Association" {Psychological 
Review Monograph Supplement, No. 2), Titchener, § 52. 



ii6 A First Book in Psychology 

in creative imagination I reach out also beyond the limits of 
past and present. As a merely perceiving self I am bound to 
this desk, this loom, this plot of ground ; but as a remember- 
ing self I live through, once more, the exhilarating adventures 
and the beautiful scenes of my past experience, and as a 
creatively imagining self I am hampered neither by 'now' 
nor by 'then.' I go beyond my own actual experience, I 
see visions, I dream dreams, I create new forms. In Steven- 
son's words : — 

*'When at home alone I sit 
And am very tired of it, 
I have just to shut my eyes 
To go saihng through the skies." 

Evidently, therefore, we shall wisely seek to foster both mem- 
ory and creative imagining. But it is plain at once that one 
cannot directly will novelty or spontaneity or independence in 
imagining; and that one may as well try to harness Pegasus 
as to frame rules for the fancy. In other words, the cultiva- 
tion of imagination is limited to the ci^ltivation of memory — 
the effort to reproduce accurately and vividly. Indirectly, in- 
deed, this cultivation of the memory lays the foundation, as it 
were, for creative imagination and fancy. In other words, 
memory is not a mere end in itself, and we memorize not only 
in order to re-live our past experiences, but in order to become 
capable of new ones. For all creative imagining, as has ap- 
peared, consists in the novel combination of the reproduced 
images of color, sounds, and movements, or of words. The 
creative suggestion, the flight of fancy, follows only on the vivid 
and faithful reproduction of the actual experience ; and imagi- 
nation, lacking this accuracy and fidelity, is insignificant and 
ineffective. Thus, the truly imaginative poet is endowed 



The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 117 

with what Lewes called ' vision, ' and his work is distinguished 
by " great accuracy in depicting things ... so that we may 
be certain the things presented themselves in the field of 
the poet's vision and were painted because seen." * 

Not only creative imagination but all forms of thought are 
based on memory. Thus, I could not generalize without 
memory — for example, I could not be conscious of chairs as a 
class, if I could not remember different sorts of chairs which 
I have seen ; and I could not reason — for example, I could 
not reason out the solution of an algebraic problem — if I 
could not remember the values, once learned, of the different 
terms. Now analytic reasoning and creative imagination are 
the two psychological forms of learning, that is, acquisition of 
new experience ; f and it is therefore true that memory (though 
in itself a preservation of old experiences) is essential to 
learning. Even physiological learning, the acquirement of 
new bodily dexterities, is dependent on memory ; for the old in- 
stinctive reactions would be repeated again and again — the 
fish would always snap the hook and the child would invari- 
ably touch the flame — but for memories of the painful results 
of such activities. 

Obviously, therefore, it is well worth our while to concern 
ourselves with methods of memorizing; for, despite great 
individual differences in the ability to memorize, experimental 
investigation has failed to disclose any one utterly incapable 
of improving his memory. On the contrary, unexpected 
capacity for improvement has been brought to light. In a 
long series of experiments carried on in the Wellesley College 

* "Principles of Success in Literature," Chapter III. The student is 
advised to read this entire chapter, 
t Cf. Chapter V., p. 89. 



ii8 A First Book in Psychology 

laboratory * one subject was trained to reproduce correctly 
series of eighty-one colors or odors or nonsense syllables; 
another learned to reproduce series of sixty-one terms; 
and no subject failed to show some improvement through 
practice. 

Methods of memorizing have been formulated on the basis 
of the principles of attention and of association.^ These 
methods vary somewhat according as one seeks to memorize 
one fact or many, and according as one wishes to memorize 
facts as ordered or facts irrespective of order. Certain con- 
clusions, however — one may perhaps call them rules for 
memorizing — emerge clearly from the experimental study of 
methods.! The first of these has already been stated: One 
should attend to that which one wishes to remember. To pro- 
mote memory one must, therefore, observe with attention ; to 
secure the recurrence of an experience, one must concentrate 
oneself upon it. A classic illustration of the dependence of 
memory on attentive apprehension occurs in Wordsworth's 
"Daffodils": — 

'T gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought, 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude." 

* Cf. "A Study in Memorizing Various Materials by the Reconstruction 
Method," by Eleanor A. McC. Gamble, Psychological Review Monograph 
Supplements, Psychological Series, No. 42, 1909. The remaining portion of 
this chapter is based, in great part, upon the experimental investigation and 
the conclusions of this book. 

t For experiments (of various types), cf. Seashore, Chapter XI, ; Myers, 
op, cit., Exps. 95, 96. 



The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 119 

The second rule for memorizing is designed to meet a 
difficulty in attentive apprehension due to the multiplicity of 
objects which it is desired to attend to, and thus to remember. 
Attention, it is evident, should he directed to those parts of a 
complex or of a series which are normally most often forgotten. 
So far as series are concerned, ordinary observation and ex- 
periment alike disclose the fact that the middle part of a series 
is most likely to be forgotten — a fact readily understood when 
one remembers that the first of a series has a certain interest, 
and that the last of a series possesses the advantage of recency 
in experience. It is evidently, then, expedient to direct one's 
attention toward the middle of the series — experimental indi- 
cations point to the part just beyond the middle. Thus, 
if one is trying to visualize a series of the colors green, gray, 
brown, pink, blue, white, red, black, mauve, the attention 
should be directed not to green and gray, nor to black and 
mauve, but to blue and white. 

Another method for attending to a group of facts is recog- 
nized by the third rule for memorizing: single facts to he 
remembered should he grouped or unified. Words, for example, 
are most readily remembered as linked in sentences or in 
stanzas ; and the streets in a city or rooms in a building are 
best recalled as related parts of a map or plan. Even mean- 
ingless material, if one is trying to remember it, should be 
grouped — nonsense syllables, for example, in rhythmical 
measures, or colored papers in blocks of three or four. In- 
deed, every-day observation shows that facts of any sort are 
best remembered when grouped. Thus, I learn the date, 
i6go, of the publication of Locke's "Essay" by connecting 
it with the date, 1688, of the coming of William and Mary and 
with the fact that Locke returned from his exile in Holland on 



I20 A First Book in Psychology 

the ship which bore the Princess of Orange ; and I connect 
the invention of printing and the discovery of America with 
the late fifteenth century by regarding both as manifestations 
of the renaissant spirit of adventure. 

The fourth rule for memorizing follows from a principle 
of association: that an experience occurring frequently in 
different connections is the more likely to recur. If the 
professor of economics and the professor of German and the 
professor of ethics alike quote Nietzsche in their lectures, I am 
likely to be reminded of Nietzsche more often than if he were 
favored by one only of my teachers. It follows that one 
should emphasize existing connections and form new connec- 
tions of the fact-to-be-remembered with other facts likely to 
recur and to suggest it. This rule, though important, needs to 
be guarded. For, first, the greater the variety of facts in- 
directly or directly connected, the greater the likelihood that, 
in a given situation, an undesired image — or no image — will 
recur. If the nonsense syllable mej appears in the fifth place 
of a series which I am trying to learn, the fact that it has held 
second place in yesterday's series and eighth place in a last 
week's series makes it likely that, on trying to repeat to-day's 
list, I assign mej to second or eighth, not to fifth, place, or that 
I am altogether doubtful of its position. The formation, in 
the second place, of artificial connections is commonly of very 
questionable value, for such connections lack the very condi- 
tions of associative recurrence. It is futile, for example, 
to transfer one's ring to the middle finger for the sake of re- 
minding oneself to wind the clock. Clock-winding and ring- 
on-third-finger are not normally connected in my experience, 
but occur together seldom, and there is therefore little likeli- 
hood that the sight of the ring, a few hours hence, will recall 



The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 121 

precisely the image of clock-winding. Indeed, the artifi- 
cial auxiliary image, expressly formed to suggest some other 
image, has a pertinacious way of absorbing attention and thus 
of preventing the association desired. If I try to remember 
Mr. Saltmarsh's name by ' connecting' it with the term ' Fresh- 
meadow,' I am more than likely to strain our relations by 
calling Mr. Saltmarsh 'Freshmeadow' when next I meet him. 
A final rule for memory has already been implied: one 
should repeat the fact, or the series, or the group of facts to he 
remembered. This rule is based on the principle underlying 
association that the frequently occurring experience is likely 
to be suggested, or remembered; and that it is also, by virtue 
of mere repetition, likely to be suggestive. However common- 
place or naturally uninteresting the scene or the paragraph, 
let it often enough be repeated in one's experience and one is 
bound to remember it — perhaps to the exclusion of the vivider 
landscape or stanza. This is a truth of very great pedagogical 
importance. We know that naturally interesting and recent 
and frequent experiences are likely to recur. But the inter- 
est — that is, roughly speaking, the pleasantness or unpleas- 
antness, or unusualness — of an experience is, for the most 
part, beyond our direct control. We cannot at will make our 
experiences vivid in order to remember them, nor dull their 
poignancy in order to forget them. And though we are often 
able to secure the recency of our experience — to refresh our 
memories and to ' cram ' overnight for examinations — yet this 
sort of memory is notoriously evanescent. In repetition, on 
the other hand, we have a memory-method which is, in great 
degree, directly subject to our control and variation and which 
is also significant and relatively permanent in effect. With a 
sufficient number of repetitions one may remember, for a while 



122 A First Book in Psychology 

at least, almost anything; one may supplement associations 
which have been formed through impressive or through recent 
experiences; and one may even supplant harmful associa- 
tions already formed. A child who often enough repeats, 
from the safe vantage-ground of his father's arms, the experi- 
ence of stroking Jack, the dog, will in the end exorcise from 
his mind the memory of Jack's overrough welcome ; and any- 
body may correct the most ingrained misspellings who will 
often enough copy the misspelled word in its proper form. 
Ordinary observation, supported by a certain amount of 
experimental study, suggests that this voluntary repetition of 
facts to be remembered is more trustworthy when slow than 
when fast. It is true that swift learning, when successful at 
all, is more effective than slow learning, in proportion to 
the time spent on it ; but many series and groups of facts are 
too large to be learned at all after this fashion, and facts 
quickly learned — for example, Shakespearian lines and 
chronological tables 'crammed' for examination — seem to be 
forgotten far more quickly than facts more slowly acquired. 
Doubtless the great advantage of slow learning is that it 
facilitates what Miss Gamble calls 'good technique' in memo- 
rizing; and by this is meant, wisely distributed attention, 
artificial grouping, and emphasis upon the connection be- 
tween terms in a series. 

Experimental investigation has concerned itself especially 
with repetition as a factor in memorizing series and has sup- 
plied two corollaries to the theorem that repetition strengthens 
memory. These are : first, that repetition has a diminishing 
effect : that I learn more in the first few repetitions than in 
many later ones; second, that repetitions are more effective 
if distributed than if massed — that it is better, for example, 



The Uses and Methods of Memorizing 123 

to repeat a stanza three times every hour for four consecutive 
hours than to repeat it twelve times on a stretch. 

We conclude then that, for each one of us, there is good hope 
of cultivating the memory. By discriminating attention, by 
careful grouping of the diverse, one may wisely apprehend 
one's material; and by patient repetition one may increase 
the likelihood of its reappearance. Even the man with the 
wretched verbal memory should not give over hope of im- 
proving it; for an exact verbal memory is a priceless posses- 
sion. A word may summarize, as no other can, a mass of 
details or may express a meaning which no other can carry. 
And a beautiful word-sequence on the lips or on the pen of a 
master of style has an irreplaceable music and charm. 



* 



CHAPTER VIII 

RECOGNITION 

I. Recognition as Personal Attitude 

The word 'memory' is commonly used with two distinct 
meanings. "I remember" Schiller's "Erlkonig" when I can 
correctly repeat it; but "I remember" the teacher who set 
me to learning the poem when I recognize her, twenty years 
later, an unexpected figure in the Potsdamer Bahnhof. 
These two experiences, though very often combined, are 
utterly different and are therefore wisely distinguished by 
different names. In this book, accordingly, the word ' rec- 
ognition ' is used to indicate the consciousness of an object 
as identical with an object of my earlier experience, whereas 
'memory' is used of accurate reproductive imagination, the 
repetition of former consciousness. Memory, in this sense, is 
very often supplemented by recognition, yet is possible with- 
out it. For example, I am remembering if I "see with my 
mind's eye" a vision of the Dent du Midi, even though I do 
not at the moment realize that this imagined mountain is 
called "Dent du Midi," or that I have ever before seen it. 
But I am recognizing when I say to myself, "I saw this moun- 
tain on a July day from the Montreux terrace," or even if I 
reflect, "I have seen this mountain before, though I don't 
know where or when." Recognition may accompany per- 
ception, and indeed every sort of experience as well as memory. 
The example just given is of recognition with memory; but 

124 



Recognition as Personal Attitude 125 

when in the summer of 1901 I actually saw the Dent du 
Midi, for the second time, I recognized it as the same moun- 
tain which I had first seen ten years before — and this was 
recognition with perception. Recognition is distinguished, 
also, as more or less complete. When I recognize a figure in a 
Paris crowd as one I have seen before, but try in vain to recall 
name or home or other association, this is very incomplete 
recognition. The recognition is relatively complete if, on the 
other hand, I recognize the figure as that, for example, of Pro- 
fessor Harold Hoffding ; if I recall that I first met him in the 
World's Fair Building at St. Louis in 1904; that he has 
written a book on psychology, a history of philosophy, and a 
philosophy of religion; that he has a son who is much con- 
cerned in problems of Danish education, and so on. 

It is evident that there are indefinitely many grades of com- 
pleteness of recognition, and it must now be shown that this 
completeness consists in the supplementation of recognition 
by associated imagination. Totally incomplete recognition, 
which occurs seldom (according to some psychologists, never) , 
is that in which one perceives or imagines an object without 
any associated imagination of former place or circumstance. 
The recognition is nearly incomplete if there occur only a 
single supplementary imagination — for example, if the recogni- 
tion of a face suggests one image only, that of a steamer-deck ; 
it grows fuller if there follow more images — for instance, if the 
steamer-deck image is succeeded by the verbal image, " Devon- 
ian, 1902"; it is more nearly complete when there follow — 
probably after a pause and in a rush — still other images, verbal 
or concrete, for instance, the images of "Colonel Blake, Civil 
War veteran, travelling with a pretty young wife." 

Supplementing imagination plays so important a part in 



126 A First Book in Psychology 

useful recognizing that some psychologists have described 
recognition as any experience supplemented by imagination. 
This account of recognition is, however, discredited by cer- 
tain experimental studies. These show at least three types 
of recognition which would be impossible if the recognition 
consisted in supplementing imagination pure and simple. 
There are, first, cases in which imagination follows on the 
consciousness of an unrecognized object, as when I call an 
unfamiliar object by a totally incorrect name. Obviously, 
recognition cannot consist in the image of a word which does 
not have any connection with the object recognized. Cases 
occur, in the second place, in which the recognition precedes 
the supplementary imagination by a marked interval — in 
which, for example, an odor is recalled as familiar long be- 
fore the imagination of name or of circumstance. Here, the 
recognition precedes the supplementary imagination and can- 
not, therefore, be identical with it. There are finally a few 
cases on record — too few, however, to be, in themselves, 
decisive — in which an object has been recognized without 
the occurrence of any supplemental imagining.^ * 

Up to this point, recognition has been described and illus- 
trated in a more or less untechnical way. We must now 
discover and formulate its essential characters; and first of 
these is the emphasized persistence of the self in recognition. 
When I recognize, I regard my present self as experiencing 
in the present what I, this same self, experienced in 
the past. John Stuart Mill dwells on this character of rec- 
ognition in a well-known passage about memory (by which, 
as will appear, he means what we are calling recognition). 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
paragraphs of Appendix, Section VIII. 



Recognition as Relational Consciousness 127 

"What is memory?" he asks * "It is not merely having the 
idea of [a] fact recalled. It is having the idea recalled along 
with the belief that the fact, which it is idea of, really happened 
. . . and ... to myself. Memory implies an Ego who for- 
merly experienced the facts remembered, and who was the 
same Ego then as now." The consciousness of myself as 
* same ' through changing experience is thus an integral part 
of recognition. 

We may next ask : Of what besides my persisting self am I 
conscious in recognition? in other words, what is the object of 
my recognition ? Apparently it may be of any type. I may 
recognize a person ; an external thing or scene ; an impersonal 
rule or law ; or, finally, my own experience as such. More 
carefully scrutinized, the object of recognition is person, 
thing, or impersonal fact regarded as identical with the same 
object experienced in my past. The object of recognition, 
in a word, is an object related to myself. 

The structural analysis of recognition will form the final 
stage of this description. From perception and imagination, 
which (it will be remembered) are analyzed into elements 
mainly sensational, recognition is distinguished by the promi- 
nence of elements of a totally different sort, relational ele- 
ments, as they have been called. The nature of these rela- 
tional elements has next to be considered. 

II. Recognition as Relational Consciousness 

RELATIONAL ELEMENTS^ 

Some psychologists claim that structural analysis resolves 
our consciousness into elements wholly sensational; others 

* Note 33 to Vol. XL, Chapter XIV., Section 7, of James Mill's "Analysis 
of the Phenomena of the Human Mind." 



128 A First Book in Psychology 

hold that there are but two classes of elements: sensational 
elements, the color-qualities, taste-qualities, and the like, 
and affective elements, the feelings of pleasantness and of 
unpleasantness * The element of attention, or clearness, is 
sometimes named in addition to these. f But many contem- 
porary psychologists, including the writer of this book, are 
convinced that all these analyses are inadequate; that we 
have certain experiences which are not completely analyzed, 
even structurally, when the sensational and the affective ele- 
ments and the attention, which form part of them, have been 
enumerated; that there are, in other words, elements of 
consciousness other than the sensational and affective ele- 
ments and attention. These neglected elements of conscious- 
ness have been named relational, and it is not difficult to dis- 
cover experiences into which they enter as significant part. 
When, for example, I try to match one green with another, my 
consciousness of greenness, of colorless light, of brightness, 
and of extensity are not the only elements of my conscious- 
ness. On the contrary, the consciousness of the likeness or 
difference of the given green as compared with the standard 
is the very essence of the experience. Again, when I think 
of a vibrating string as cause of a sound, the consciousness of 
causal relation is as distinct a feature of my experience as the 
sensational consciousness of pitch or of loudness. 

But, easy as it is to point out experiences characterized by 
relational elements, the attempt to enumerate them discloses 
extraordinary obstacles. They have no special physical 
stimuli, and they are physiologically conditioned not by any 
end-organ excitation but by brain-change only — either by 

* Cf. Chapter XI., p. 172, and Appendix, Section XL, § i. 
t Cf. Chapter VI,, p. 94, and Appendix, Section VI., § i. 



Recognition as Relational Consciousness 129 

the excitation of the so-called association centres, or by the 
excitation of transverse fibres, or in both ways.* On account 
of this lack of distinctive physical stimuli, the relational ele- 
ments cannot easily be isolated and varied by experimental 
devices, since experiment must be applied to physical stimuli 
and not directly to consciousness itself.j In our study of these 
relational elements we are in great part, therefore, thrown 
back upon individual introspection — notoriously untrust- 
worthy and at this point especially difficult. We are thus 
liable to mistake a relatively simple yet analyzable experi 
ence for one which is really elemental. For all these rea- 
sons it is unwise to attempt a full classification of relationa. 
elements. The following enumeration is incomplete, and in- 
deed merely tentative. Of the experiences which it names, 
some, doubtless, are not wholly unanalyzable ; but all are 
irreducible to merely sensational and affective elements : The 
experiences of 'one' and of 'many' are peculiarly constant 
elements of this class, that is, they seem to lie at the base of 
most relational experiences ; and v^hat James calls the ' feel- 
ings ' ^ of 'and,' and of 'but' — that is, the consciousness of 
connection and of opposition — and the experiences of ' like ' 
and of 'different,' of 'more' and of 'less,' are certainly rela- 
tional experiences and are probably also elemental. 

Few wide-awake adult experiences are destitute of these 
relational elements. Perception and imagination, for example, 
though predominantly sensational, are characterized, as we 
have seen, by a consciousness of unification (or together-ness) 
and of separateness-t And whenever, as in the experience 

* Cf. Appendix, Section III. (§ 7). 
t Cf. Chapter I., p. 8. 
J Cf. Chapter IV., p. 66. 



130 A First Book in Psychology 

now under discussion, that is, in recognition, I am con- 
scious of time, there the relational consciousness is signifi- 
cant. Psychologists who deny the occurrence of any ele- 
mental relational consciousness believe that recognition may 
be adequately described without recourse to it. When, for 
example, I recognize a certain picture in the Hague gallery, 
my consciousness includes, they hold, merely (i) the visual 
elements involved in my consciousness of the rich brown tints, 
the high lights, and the contour of the face; (2) the verbal 
imagination of the names of picture and of painter — " Homer," 
by Rembrandt; (3) the organic sensations due to my re- 
laxed attitude as I come upon a well-remembered picture 
among many unfamiliar ones ; and (4) a feeling of pleasure. 
But though all these are truly elements in my consciousness of 
the picture, by themselves they would not constitute recogni- 
tion. To this belongs a simple, though not an elemental, 
experience, which may be named the consciousness of familiar- 
ity. It is hard to analyze, yet clearly characterized by non- 
sensational elements other than the affection of pleasantness, 
and attention. ^Like some sensational complexes, the con- 
sciousness of humidity, for example, it is so intimate a fusion 
of elements as to have an individuality of its own. But like 
that, too, it is after all capable of analysis into simpler parts, 
the relational consciousness of ' same' and of ' past.' In other 
words, the consciousness of an object as familiar, that is, 
the recognition of an object, seems to include, when reflected 
on, the consciousness of sameness with a past thing, and the 
recognition of an event means the awareness of ' this event iden- 
tical- with-something-past.' Closely observed, therefore, every 
experience of familiarity is analyzable into these factors. This 
does not mean that we necessarily think of the words 'same' 



Recognition as Relational Consciousness 131 

or 'past,' but that we have special sorts of consciousness 
expressed by these words. The experience of sameness is 
relatively simple. The analysis of the consciousness of the 
past is far more difficult. It involves, like all consciousness 
of temporal relation, a realization of the ' moment,' that is, 
of the fact which is linked with other facts in two directions. 
But the 'past' is the irrevocable, unrevivable moment. 
The experience of the past may, therefore, be roughly de- 
scribed as the consciousness of an irrevocable fact, linked in 
two directions with other facts. 

The study of volition will involve a consideration of another 
sort of relational consciousness of time, that is, the conscious- 
ness of the future.* But the chapter immediately following on 
this will discuss, instead, those impersonal forms of relational 
consciousness which are called thought. The results of the 
present chapter may be recapitulated in the statement that 
the recognizing self is (i) relationally conscious of (2) itself 
as persistent and of objects as related to its past. Comparing 
recognition with perception and imagination we find, there- 
fore, that it differs mainly in two respects from both. It is, 
first, an explicit and emphasized consciousness of myself, and, 
in particular, of myself as persistent. Every experience, it is 
true, includes this consciousness of persisting self, but in 
perception and in imagination the awareness of self is 
unemphasized and unattended-to, whereas, in recognition, 
it is the centre and core of the consciousness. Recognition 
is, in the second place, an experience in which not sensational 
but relational elements are predominant. 

A word should be said of paramnesia, so-called 'false 

* Cf. Chapter XII., p. 219. 



132 A First Book in Psychology 

memory/ which is better named false recognition. It has 
two forms, perceptual and imaginative recognizing. An exam- 
ple of the first is the 'been-here-before' feeling which some- 
times overwhelms us when we enter strange places and new 
scenes. Rossetti has vividly described this experience : — 

" I have been here before, 

But when or how I cannot tell : 
I know the grass beyond the door, 
The sweet, keen smell." 

In the second type of paramnesia one "recognizes," as be- 
longing to one's past, imaginations which correspond with 
no past occurrence. Many of our dream imaginations 
and many experiences of the mentally deranged are of this 
type ; but even commoner illustrations of it are the inaccurate 
testimony and the fictitious ' recollections ' of perfectly honest 
people. Nicolay and Hay, the biographers of Lincoln, are 
quoted as saying, from their experience in editing recollec- 
tions, that "mere memory, unassisted by documentary evi- 
dence, is utterly unreliable after a lapse of fifteen years." 



CHAPTER IX 



thought: conception 



The words 'thought' and 'thinking' are often on our lips 
and are used with many shades of meaning. To begin with : 
'thought' is often identified with 'consciousness/ and is thus 
contrasted with 'matter' or 'extension.' This is the meaning 
which Descartes gives to the word in his famous proposition : 
"Cogito ergo sum." Again, 'thinking' is often used to de- 
scribe all non-perceiving consciousness: "What are you 
doing in the dark?" some one asks me; "Just thinking," I 
may answer — and ' thinking ' here means imagining, indulg- 
ing in revery. The psychologist, however, is wont to use the 
terms in stricter and narrower fashion and to mean by ' think- 
ing ' not consciousness in general, but a form of consciousness 
to be distinguished as well from imagination as from percep- 
tion — namely, the consciousness of objects as related to each 
other. The thinking self is the self (i) relationally conscious 
(2) of related objects which (3) it knows, reflectively if not 
immediately, as objects, also, of other selves. We shall con- 
sider these characters of thought in a slightly different order; 
and shall begin by seeking illustrations of the difference 
between perception and imagination, on the one hand, and 
thought, on the other. I see or imagine a strawberry and a 
tomato ; a scaly lobster ; an electric drum which revolves after 
I touch a button. But I think about the likeness of straw- 
berry to tomato ; of the class of Crustacea ; and of the causal 

133 



134 A First Book in Psychology 

connection between electric contact and moving drum. In 
my thinking I am, in other words, attentively conscious not 
of color, sound, or fragrance, nor of happiness or unhap- 
piness, but of likeness, of causal relation, or of logical 
grouping. 

The related objects of thought may be of any sort, personal 
or impersonal, external or non-external, public or private. 
I may, for example, compare (and thus think about) selves, 
about things, about formulae, even about my own experiences. 
I think about these objects, however, as related, and as re-- 
lated not to me but to each other. Otherwise stated, the 
relation is impersonal, even when the related objects are per- 
sonal. Herein thought-objects are sharply distinguished from 
recognized (or familiar) objects, from the objects of my 
love, my hate, and my other emotions, and from the 
objects of my will. Of all these objects I am directly aware 
as related to myself; whereas, in thinking, I am only 
vaguely conscious of myself but attentively conscious of 
the objects, as related. 

We have next to notice that thinking is not, like imagination, 
a 'private' experience. As in the case of perception I am 
conscious, either immediately (during my thinking) or reflect- 
ively (as I look back on my thinking), that I am sharing the 
experience of other thinking selves.^ * Otherwise stated : 
thought-relations are public, universal, not peculiarly my 
own. There is something private and particular about my 
reveries and my day-dreams, but my thoughts are never 
regarded as personal property. My castles in Spain are 
private dwellings, but the great halls of thought swing wide to 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
paragraphs of Appendix, Section IX. 



Thought 135 

every comer. This is most readily illustrated from the more 
abstract sorts of thinking, and the most striking of all examples 
are from logic and mathematical science. No man appro- 
priates the multiplication table or the axiom that things equal 
to the same thing are equal to each other, or the theorem that 
the sum of the angles of a triangle equals two right angles, as 
an experience peculiar to himself. 

The character of thought which has still to be emphasized 
is revealed by a structural analysis. My consciousness of 
objects as related is distinguished by elemental experiences of 
a special sort — relational experiences, or feelings, as the pre- 
ceding chapter has designated them. These feelings of like- 
ness and of difference, of totality, of opposition, are experiences 
as distinct as the sensations of blue, of noise, of saltness, and 
the affective feeling of pleasantness. There are no physical 
stimuli, and no well-established or finely differentiated neural 
phenomena with which we may coordinate them ; but they are 
all, none the less, distinct experiences, and not to be resolved 
into sensational and affective elements. There are as many 
kinds of thinking as there are impersonal relational ex- 
periences, and these forms of thinking are most readily 
grouped according as their objects are temporally or non- 
temporally related. Causal thinking, involving a reference 
to temporal order, belongs to the first class; comparison, 
the consciousness of objects as like or different or equal, 
is a form of non- temporal thinking, for 2X2 is 4, and 
white is other than black, not now or to-morrow, but with- 
out any reference to time. To discuss in detail all the 
forms of thought would carry us beyond our limits. We 
shall, therefore, consider only three: conception, judgment, 
and reasoning. 



136 A First Book in Psychology 

I. Conception 
a. The Nature of Conception? 

Conception is the relational consciousness (reflectively at- 
tributed to other selves also) of a group or of an object as 
member of a group. Conception is, indeed, distinguished 
from all other kinds of consciousness by its generalized object. 
I perceive or imagine, for example, my own striped pussy or the 
pumpkin on the kitchen table, but I conceive the class ' cats,' 
or ' any pumpkin.' Conceptions of both sorts are the terms, 
as will appear, of general judgments expressed in such prop- 
ositions as "cats eat mice," or ''pumpkin is for making pies." 

The relational experiences especially distinctive of concep- 
tion are the experiences of generality. These are two (corre- 
sponding with the two sorts of object of conception) : the 
consciousness of class, and the consciousness of ' anyness,' that 
is, of membership in a class. Thus, my consciousness of the 
pumpkin includes not only (i) the sensational consciousness, 
probably indistinct and shifting, of the yellowness, smoothness, 
and roundness of the pumpkin and (2) the vague relational 
consciousness of oneness and of distinctness — for if this wxre 
all, conception would not be structurally different from per- 
ception and imagination — but also (3) one of the two rela- 
tional experiences of generality, the consciousness of class 
or the consciousness of 'any.' Neither of these is a strictly 
elemental consciousness. The first is the consciousness of 
the oneness of many similars, and therefore involves at least 
three elemental experiences. The second is the consciousness 
of similarity to the many forming a group, and is consequently 
even more complex. But somewhat as the sensational con- 
sciousness of quality, the consciousness of intensity, and that 



The Nature of Conception 137 

of extensity fuse in a sensation, so the relational elements fuse 
in a consciousness of generality. 

Conception may be described either in terms of its object or 
in terms of the elemental kinds of consciousness into which it 
is structurally analyzable, for the two sorts of description are, 
roughly speaking, parallel. From the first point of view, 
conception is classified by reference to the common features of 
the class which constitutes its object ; according to structural 
content, conception differs in that the consciousness of gener- 
ality attaches to one or another of the experiences into which 
the conception is analyzable. It would be foolish to attempt 
an exhaustive enumeration; but three important types of 
conception must be named. These are (i) verbal, the con- 
sciousness of a class (or member of a class) whose common 
character is a name; (2) relational, the consciousness of a 
class (or of a member of a class) whose common character is 
a relation — say of order, opposition, or degree ; (3) motor, the 
consciousness of a class (or member of a class) whose common 
character consists in this, that each one of the class calls forth 
a similar bodily reaction. These descriptions are in terms of 
the object of conception. Described from the standpoint of 
structural analysis, verbal conception is the perception or 
imagination of a word, supplemented by a feeling of generality; 
relational conception is that in which the consciousness either 
of class or of 'anyness' attaches itself to a predominantly 
relational experience; motor conception is conception in 
which the consciousness of bodily reaction is the significant 
and characteristic centre to which the consciousness of ' class ' 
or of ' any ' attaches. 

Verbal conception is said to occur in all abstract thinking. 
The conceptions of 'justice,' of 'power,' of 'benevolence,' may 



138 A First Book in Psychology 

consist mainly of verbal imagination augmented by a feeling of 
generality. Yet the role of verbal imagination in thinking 
has probably been overemphasized ; and abstract conception 
is doubtless more often relational than purely verbal. When, 
for example, in studying logic or theoretical natural science, I 
conceive order, series, function, force, or causality, my con- 
sciousness is best described as a relational experience accom- 
panied by the consciousness (also relational) of generality; 
and the object of my thought is rather a relation than a 
word. 

Concrete conception is in great part of the motor type. The 
generalized feature of my 'hat,' for example, is not the 
material, or color, or form, because no one of these is common 
to the innumerable, widely different objects known as hats. 
Between the minister's silk hat and his wife's picture-hat with 
the ostrich feather there is, in fact, little in common except the 
characteristic motor reaction called forth by each. The hat 
is thus the 'to-be-put-on-the-head,' and this imagination of 
bodily reaction is probably the part of my consciousness of 
'hat' which is accompanied by the experience of generality 
and followed by a series of images, — of mortar-board, cardi- 
nal's hat, and peasant's cap, — very different objects, similar 
in this one respect, that they are things to be put on the head, 
in the same way, foods differ in every conceivable particular 
of color, form, and consistency, but agree in calling forth a 
common system of bodily movements. The generalized fea- 
ture of the object ' food ' is thus the fact that it is the ' to-be- 
eaten.' In the same way, the pen is the ' to-be-written-with,' 
the flower is the ' to-be-smelled ' or 'to-be-picked,' the chair 
is the 'to-be-sat-down-in,' ^ 

A final teaching about conception is the following: The 



The Nature of Conception 139 

conception belonging to a given moment is associative of 
a series of images of closely resembling objects.^ In other 
words, a conception forms the starting-point for a series of 
partial associations. This mark of conception, it will be ob- 
served, is not a constituent feature but a function of it — not 
a part of it, but a result of it, as it were. There can be no 
doubt that a conception is, as a matter of fact, followed by a 
series, longer or shorter, of images of objects said to belong 
to a class. The conception of ' boat,' for example, suggests a 
panoramic series of images of canoes, sloops, fishing schooners, 
and warships; and the conception of 'bag' is followed by a 
rapidly shifting procession of images of travelling bag, shoe bag, 
rag bag, knitting bag. This function of suggesting the images 
of similar objects is often expressed by saying that a concep- 
tion, or generalization, "represents" or "stands for" a group 
of similar objects. Herein it is sharply contrasted with un- 
generalized perception or imagination. My perception of one 
particular kind of opal ring is likely to associate an imagi- 
nation of the odd little shop in "la rue de la Grosse 
Horloge," where I bought the ring, and this in turn may 
be followed by the image of the friend who incited me 
to buy it and by the memory of her disquisition on ancient 
gems. The images succeeding on perception or imagina- 
tion may thus be of objects very different from each other 
and from the initiating experience. In the case of con- 
ception it is otherwise. The conception 'ring,' for example, 
associates a series of images of rings, each resembling all 
the others in the possession of certain common qualities, 
and the conception ' theorem ' is followed by the conscious- 
ness of propositions and of figures from the different 
books of Euclid, each more or less similar to the rest. 



I40 A First Book in Psychology 

b. The Uses and Dangers of Conception 

There is no more insistent mental impulse and no more per- 
sistent mental habit than that of framing conceptions. Once 
I have learned to generalize I am eager to refer every new 
object, event, or situation to its class, and to regard it as 'any' 
or as ' one of a group ' and not merely as ' this.' I see an oddly 
shaped piece of metal; it is an irregular, oblong object, 
silvery, carven, hollow : I am uneasy until I classify it as a 
vase or as a tea-caddy or as a paper-weight, that is, until I 
group it with other objects similar to it in few or in many char- 
acters. Or I find, as I walk for the first time in the Maine 
woods, a flower which I never have seen, and I do not rest 
until I group it with the orchids, regarding it not as a single 
individual but as one of a class. 

This ineradicable tendency has its justification, and — in 
a way — its explanation, in the significance of coi;iception in 
the mental life. It is true that by conceiving I in no wise 
enlarge my experience — that is, I learn nothing in the 
technical sense of the word 'learn'; but, on the other 
hand, I wisely sort out and distribute and preserve the rc; 
suits of past experience. In a word, conception is a form 
of mental thrift, a canny economy of one's mental attainments. 
It will, however, appear in the next chapter that the general 
judgment (which is merely the conception supplemented by a 
feeling of wholeness and analyzed by discriminating attention) 
is an important constituent of reasoning ; * and in this way 
conception, like memory, though itself a preserving function, 
lays the foundation for creative experience, for acquisition. 
It will be shown, also, in our study of will, how conception 

* Cf. Chapter X., pp. 148 ff. 



The Uses and Dangers of Conception 141 

simplifies choice by helping us to subordinate particular 
possibilities of thought or action * to classes which we have 
earlier chosen or rejected. In brief, generalization groups 
objects of our consciousness, and the result of this group- 
ing is that a single pulse of attention covers a mass of 
phenomena that must otherwise be dealt with singly, at 
great loss of time, or utterly neglected. 

It will later be shown that conception has a social as well 
as a mainly individual value in that it facilitates intercourse 
between conscious beings by making possible conventional 
language.! Conception aids intercourse also in an even 
more fundamental way. We communicate with people the 
more readily because we and they form conceptions. For in 
conceiving we lay stress on common experiences and we ab- 
stract from that which is peculiar to ourselves. Thus, we 
may talk or write to people who have met few or none of the 
particular objects of our acquaintance precisely because we 
have common conceptions ; because, for example, we mutually 
know ' friends ' and ' foods ' and ' amusements,' though we 
have no common friends, and live on different fare, and amuse 
ourselves in very different ways. 

It is time to turn from this enumeration of the advantages 
to a consideration of the dangers of conception. Conception is, 
as has appeared, a form of generalization, and may therefore 
menace the life of imagination, of reasoning, and of emotion. 
We are best fitted, at our present stage of progress, to under- 
stand the first of these perils. The fundamental excellencies 
of imagination are vividness and accuracy of detail. Concep- 
tion, on the other hand, implies indistinctness and vagueness 

* Cf. Chapter XII., p. 229. 
t Cf. Chapter X., p. 162. 



142 A First Book in Psychology 

of sensational detail. My conception of andirons may be, to 
be sure, an imagination (supplemented by a feeling of gen- 
erality) of andirons ; but the sensational experiences of color, 
of shape, and of surface, are far less vivid and detailed than 
in concrete imagining. Indeed, if I were vividly imagining 
the andirons, I should be absorbed in this particular expe- 
rience; it would no longer 'stand for,' or associate, a lot of 
similar images; it would be a 'this' not an 'any.' Evidently, 
therefore, one never forms a conception save at the expense 
of one's imagination; and it follows that one should never 
generalize when sensational richness is one's chief concern. 
Obviously, also, conception is peculiarly opposed to creative 
imagining, the consciousness of the novel, for to conceive is 
precisely to ignore what is new, to seize on every novel object, 
scene, or event, and triumphantly to shut it in with its pred- 
ecessors in a pigeon-hole already labelled. It is, of course, 
true that conception may effectively work over the products 
of creative imagination, but too exclusive occupation with 
the general leaves no scope for originality or initiative. For 
a similar reason, conception imperils emotion and will. 
These, as will later appear, are intensely individualizing ex- 
periences, whereas conception, ignoring differences, reduces 
people and objects to groups and to classes. There is, thus, 
a double reason why the artist should eschew generalizations. 
For the work of art should be an embodiment of the imagina- 
tion of its maker and an incitement to the aesthetic emotion 
of the observer; and both imagination and emotion are 
particularizing experiences which have no concern with the 
general as such. 

Yet conception, rightly guarded, is of highest importance 
to us. For though our lives are mere colorless routine if we 



The Uses and Dangers of Conception 143 

generalize where we ought to cherish the vivid and the indi- 
vidual, yet our lives are chaos unless they are ordered by 
the awareness of rule and group. Without encroaching on the 
province of imagination we may wisely, therefore, train our- 
selves to frame useful conceptions. And such training will 
be gained both by attention to similarities of appearance, 
behavior, and relation, and by the attempt to follow general 
reasonings as embodied in scientific and philosophical works. 



CHAPTER X 

THOUGHT {continued) : judgment and reasoning 
II. Judgment 

By ' judgment,' as the term is used in this book, is meant the 
relational consciousness of a whole as including or excluding 
certain emphasized features, an experience reflectively known 
as shareable with other selves. The term ' judgment ' is used, 
also, both technically and popularly, to indicate affirmation or 
belief ; but, in the opinion of the writer, no other single word 
can express the consciousness of a whole, and it is better, 
therefore, to use 'judgment' in this sense, leaving to the word 
'affirmation' the other function. From the definition just 
formulated, it is evident that judgment, structurally regarded, 
is a complex of elements of consciousness, characterized by the 
relational experience of ' wholeness.' The related object of 
judgment may be of any type: external thing, other self,, 
inner experience ; I may, for example, make judgments about 
my hat, my friend, or my theory — that is, I may regard any 
one of the three as a complex whole and may emphasize by 
my attention a character included as a part of this whole or 
else excluded from it. The judgment whose object is an 
external thing evidently is a perception, an imagination, or a 
concrete conception, supplemented by the consciousness of 
wholeness. The distinction between these different sorts of 
consciousness of external thing is vague and shifting. For 

144 



Judgment 145 

example, I look off at a gray church spire, half a mile below 
me, and have a consciousness of grayness, form, roughness, 
oneness, and limitedness. I do not reflect upon this object nor 
analyze it ; and no one part of it — grayness or tapering 
height — impresses me more than another. So far, then, my 
experience is mere perception. But now, for some reason, the 
grayness of the spire draws my attention ; I lay little stress on 
its form, but I am interested in its color, — in other words, 
I have an 'abstract notion' of the color. Finally, however, 
I am conscious of the grayness as a part of the spire, as belong- 
ing to it, as forming with its shape and other features one 
whole; and now for the first time I am judging, conscious 
of a complex as a whole inclusive of an emphasized part. Per- 
ception and perceptual judgment alike are distinguished, first, 
from abstraction by their complexity, and second, from the 
total sensational complex by their limitedness. But judg- 
ment is distinguished from perception by the added feeling of 
wholeness, and by the invariable emphasis of some part within 
its total or of some excluded factor. The three sorts of expe- 
rience — perception, abstraction, perceptual judgment — may 
be represented in words, by the expressions: "I am conscious 
of this gray spire," " . . . of grayness," " . . . that this spire is 
gray." The propositional form of the last clause emphasizes 
both the totality of the object of the judgment and the empha- 
sized part of it. These are examples of particular judgments, 
A similar general judgment would be expressed in the words, 
*'I am conscious that Gothic spires are gray." 

Judgments are classified in several ways.^ * To begin with, 
they are, as has just appeared, (i) particular or general, 

* These Arabic numerals refer to the numbered paragraphs of Appendix, 
Section X. 



146 A First Book in Psychology 

according as they start from perception (or from imagination) 
or else from conception. Judgments are grouped, in the 
second place, as (2) positive or negative, according as an 
emphasized factor is included or excluded from the object of 
the judgment — that is, from the whole of which, in judging, 
one is conscious. Judgments, finally (3), may be classified 
from the manner of their formation, as analytic or synthetic, 
that is, as judgments of reflection or of discovery. An 
analytic judgment is the result of attention to a whole (ex- 
ternal thing, or self, or my own experience). For example, 
I have seen shadows on the snow a hundred times, but at 
last I emphasize, by attention, the distinctly blue color of the 
shadows cast by tree trunks; and then for the first time I 
make the judgment expressed in the words, "the shadows are 
blue." I am then definitely conscious of the whole "blue 
shadows," within which I emphasize the character of blue- 
ness. I may make, in similar circumstances, a negative ana- 
lytic judgment if I am conscious that " the shadows are not 
gray." In this case the 'judgment' is rather to be described 
as complex of succeeding imagination upon persisting per- 
ception (or upon imagination) than as simple perception or 
imagination. For example, this experience of being conscious 
that "the shadows are not gray" is a succession of the 
imagination of gray shadows upon the perception of blue 
ones. The feeling of wholeness attaches to the perception 
of blue shadows; but the emphasis of attention falls also on 
the excluded character, the grayness. 

A synthetic judgment arises through the successive con- 
sciousness of different objects. In the positive synthetic 
judgments the two objects are then regarded as parts of one 
whole. Thus, on the perception of a toad quietly sunning 



Judgment 147 

himself follows my perception of his mouth opening to engulf 
a fly. The character of eating flies forms, henceforth, a factor 
of the whole, 'toad eating flies,' which is the object of my 
judgment. In this case (of synthetic judgment), though the 
judgment is reached by a sequence of perception on percep- 
tion, the judgment itself is complex perception or imagination 
(with emphasized part) , characterized by feeling of wholeness. 
It should be noted that the object of a judgment may con- 
ceivably include more than one emphasized part. Since, 
however, our attention is very limited, it is probable that the 
greater number of judgments include, psychologically as well 
as logically, but a single predicate. The judgment, for ex- 
ample, "paramecia are unicellular and have but one form 
of reaction," though expressed in a single proposition, is, for 
most of us, two judgments, in which the feeling of whole- 
ness attaches successively to the consciousness of the complex 
objects, ' paramecia-unicellular ' and ' paramecia-reacting-in- 
one-way.' 

One final distinction must be noted. Negative judgments 
are always analytic, for they can be framed only on the basis 
of such experience as makes a judgment analytic. I can at- 
tribute a character to an object, though I have never before been 
conscious of the two together — for example, I can make the 
synthetic positive judgment, ''some water-lilies are pink"; 
but I cannot exclude from an object anything which I do not 
first imagine as belonging to it. Thus, the judgment, "these 
water-hlies are not white," involves an eailier percept or image 
of water-lilies as white; and the judgment, " this soup is not 
hot," implies that soup should be hot, that is, it implies a 
former acquaintance with hot soup. These are, therefore, 
analytic judgments. 



148 A First Book in Psychology 

III. Reasoning 

a. The Nature and Classes of Reasoning 

Judgment is best known in the form of reasoning. We 
seldom reflect upon the single judgment, the mere conscious- 
ness of discriminated wholeness in our immediate perception 
and imagination, but we notice the continuous judging which 
we call reasoning. A reasoning, or a demonstration, is a 
succession of judgments leading to a new judgment. It has 
two main forms — deductive reasoning, in which the con- 
cluding judgment is narrower in scope than some one of the 
preceding judgments, and inductive reasoning, in which the 
conclusion is wider than any preceding judgment. These 
distinctions must be illustrated and elaborated. 

The objects of the succeeding judgments of deductive rea- 
soning are related in the following way : each of the partial 
objects forming the total object of the conclusion, or final 
judgment, has been combined (as object of a preceding 
judgment) with another partial object, the 'middle term'; 
and this middle term does not form an emphasized part of 
the object of the conclusion. The objects of these succeed- 
ing judgments may be symbolized thus : xy, yz, xz, where y 
stands for the suppressed middle term. In more concrete 
fashion, this description of deductive reasoning is illustrated 
by any actual instance. Suppose, for example, the succes- 
sive judgments expressed in the following propositions : — 

My table bell does not ring. 

It is an electric bell. 

An electric bell with renewed battery rings. 

My bell, with renewed batteries, will ring. 



The Nature and Classes of Reasoning 149 

Here the first judgment is the consciousness of the bell, with 
emphasis on the excluded character of ringing. The second 
judgment is an accentuation of still another character of the 
bell — the fact of its being an electric bell, and consists in the 
consciousness of the bell as a whole, with special stress on the 
fact of its electric connections. In the third judgment most 
characters of the bell are unattended to, but the consciousness 
of it as electric is still emphasized and is supplemented by a 
new consciousness, that of connection with renewed batteries. 
Finally, in the conclusion, the character of the bell as itself 
electric is relatively unaccented, but the two characters suc- 
cessively connected with this, (i) that of the bell as ringing (or 
not ringing) and (2) that of the bell as connected with a re- 
newed battery are realized as emphasized parts of the whole, 
'table bell which rings because connected with renewed 
batteries.' Thus, the concluding judgment is the realized 
connection of the terms of two preceding judgments; each 
of these terms was previously connected with a third 
term, now unemphasized ; and the whole experience is 
properly called ' deductive reasoning ' or ' mediate judg- 
ment.' 

Inductive reasoning is less complex. A series of parallel, 
particular judgments is followed by a judgment, general 
or particular, more inclusive than any of the preceding 
judgments. From several observations, for example, of 
the fact that sal ammoniac added to the batteries 
makes the bell ring, I formulate the general judgment 
expressed in the proposition, ''all electric bells ring 
when the batteries are renewed." Such inductive reason- 
ing is thus expressed in a syllogism of the following 
sort : — 



150 A First Book in Psychology 

The electric bell in the physiological laboratory rang when 

sal ammoniac was added to the battery. 
The electric bell in the laundry rang when sal ammoniac 

was added to the battery. 
The electric bell in the fire-engine house rang when sal 

ammoniac was added to the battery. 
All electric bells ring when sal ammoniac is added. 

It is clear, that induction is a normal precursor and pre- 
liminary to deductive reasoning. For example, the conclusion 
of this inductive syllogism about electric bells forms part of 
the deductive reasoning about the table bell. All scientific rea- 
soning is, in truth, a combination of induction with deduction — 
a series of particular judgments leading to general conclusions 
followed by the application of these conclusions to still other 
particulars. The law of the conservation of energy, for ex- 
ample, was formulated as a result of successive judgments, 
based on observation. The repeated observations of Carnot, 
Joule, Mayer, and Helmholtz, that mechanical energy is con- 
vertible into an equal amount of heat led to the formulation 
of the general principle that "to create or annihilate energy is 
impossible and that all material phenomena consist in trans- 
formations of energy." The law, once formulated through 
induction, was applied to energy of all sorts — of light, of 
electricity, of magnetism; and again these deductions have 
been inductively established. Thus, induction and deduc- 
tion supplement each other in all effective scientific procedure. 
It must be noted, however, that deductive reasoning 
is not universally based on induction. Instead, it may be 
based upon judgment immediately known as universal. 
An example is expressed in the following syllogism : — 



The Nature and Classes of Reasoning 151 

Angles A and B are alternate internal angles. 
Alternate internal angles are equal. 
Therefore A and B are equal. 

Here the second judgment is perfectly general, or universal, 
but its universality is not derived from the enumeration of 
many instances of equal alternate-internal angles. 

Reasoning, whether deductive or inductive, may consist 
of varying combinations of many sorts of judgment. The 
judgments which it includes may be positive or negative, 
particular or general, analytic or synthetic. In the example 
of page 148, for instance, the first judgment is negative, the 
others positive ; the first, second, and last are particular judg- 
ments referring to my own table bell, but the third is a gen- 
eral judgment, the consciousness of an important character, 
connection with renewed batteries, of the whole class of ringing 
electric bells. The final distinction, that between analytic 
and synthetic judgments, since it concerns only the manner 
of formation, not the character of the finished judgment, is 
not readily expressible in words. It is, however, probable that 
the first and third of these judgments are synthetic, and that 
the fourth is analytic. The second judgment may be either 
analytic or synthetic. It is the business of formal logic to 
study separately these different forms of reasoning in order 
to distinguish them as valid or as invalid. Thus, the logician 
teaches that reasoning is illicit if it is made up entirely of 
negative judgments, or if the conclusion is wider in scope than 
the premises taken together. Psychology, on the other hand, 
studies actual cases of reasoning irrespective of their validity 
or invalidity, taking account primarily of the way in which 
people do reason, not of the way in which they should reason. 



152 A First Book in Psychology 

But though the psychologist may concern himself with all 
sorts of reasoning, it will be convenient to select for discussion 
the especially effective type of deductive reasoning — founded 
often on induction — which may be known as analytic- 
synthetic reasoning. It consists of the following order of 
judgments : there is, first, an analytic judgment in which some 
one feature of a whole object is singled out and brought to the 
foreground of attention ; second, a synthetic judgment whose 
object is the emphasized part of the first judgment's object 
combined with some new character; and, finally, a judg- 
ment whose object is the originally unanalyzed whole, supple- 
mented by this new character. Analytic-synthetic reasoning 
may thus be described in the words which James applies to 
judgment in general, as the 'substitution of parts and their 
implications or consequences for wholes.' One concerns 
oneself, for example, with the question of the restriction of the 
power of the British House of Lords. One's consciousness 
of the House of Lords is highly complex and very vague : it 
includes visual imaginings of hall and of figures, many verbal 
images, and relational consciousness — in particular the ex- 
perience of wholeness. If any conclusion is to be reached, 
it must be by the emphasis of some one feature of that com- 
plex object, the House of Lords — the fact, let us say, that it 
is a hereditary house. At once the simpler consciousness of 
' hereditary house ' suggests (as the consciousness of the more 
complex object had failed to suggest) that a hereditary body 
under constitutional government should not interfere with 
legislation. This character supplements the initial object of 
judgment, the British House of Lords, and is realized as form- 
ing with it a whole. We have, therefore, as expression of 
this reasoning, the syllogism : — 



The Uses and Dangers of Reasoning 153 

The British House of Lords is a hereditary house ; 
Hereditary bodies should not interfere with legislation ; 
The British House of Lords should not interfere with 
legislation. 

A final remark must be made. It must expressly be noted 
that a given result may often be reached without reasoning 
as well as through reasoning. The consciousness of a given 
situation may be followed immediately, without intervening 
judgments, by a judgment similar to that to which one might 
have reasoned. The perception that my bell does not ring 
might, for example, be followed immediately, without inter- 
vening analysis, by the consciousness of adding sal ammoniac 
to the battery. This would be a case of associated imagina- 
tion and would be explained through the fact that I had 
previously seen a broken bell repaired after this fashion. 
Cases of supposed reasoning, for example of animal reasoning, 
are often immediate associative imagining, without the analy- 
sis and the mediate judgments involved in reasoning. The 
next section will compare these two sorts of mental pro- 
cedure. 

b. The Uses and Dangers of Reasoning 

The most efficient form of reasoning is the combination of 
analytic judgments of reflection with synthetic judgments 
of discovery. Reasoning of this sort is an important kind of 
self-development, or learning, a means of acquiring new out- 
looks, new points of view, new bases for action. Analytic-syn- 
thetic reasoning attains these ends by means of the analysis 
involved in the first judgment. For this judgment, since it is 
analytic, emphasizes a quality or an attribute within a whole 
object or situation; and because this discriminated part is 



154 ^ First Book in Psychology 

less complex than the total in which it belongs it has fewer 
possible consequences ; and because it has these definite 
consequences, the analytic judgment is likelier than a more 
complex experience to form the nucleus of a second judgment. 
When, for example, I judge that a certain mosslike substance 
is animal, not vegetable, — that is, when I emphasize its 
animal characters — I readily reach conclusions impossible by 
mere observation of it as a whole. All this is clearly taught 
by James.* '' Whereas the merely empirical thinker," he says, 
''stares at a fact in its entirety and remains helpless or gets 
'stuck' if it suggests no concomitant or similar, the [analytic] 
reasoner breaks it up and notices some one of its separate 
attributes. This attribute has . . . consequences which the 
fact until then was not known to have." 

This enumeration of the uses of analytic-synthetic 
reasoning will be checked by a very natural question. It 
has been pointed out that this sort of reasoning is not the only 
method, though the usual one, of enabling us to reach new 
results. For it is always possible that immediate judgment 
may replace even analytic reasoning in any given case. One 
man may gain by a flash of intuition the same result which 
another attains only by the closest reasoning; and the bare 
result is as valuable in the one case as in the other. But 
granting that the mediate method of analytic reasoning 
is not the only way of attaining the adequate solution, there 
still remain several unassailable advantages with the analytic 
reasoner. His results, in the first place, are readily repeated. 
Intuitions, that is, immediate judgments or mere associations, 
occur we know not how; and we cannot reproduce them at 
will. The result which a man has reached by an unexplained 

* Op. cit., Vol. II., p. 330. 



The Uses and Dangers of Reasoning 155 

association, once forgotten, is beyond his voluntary control. 
On the other hand, he can repeat at will the reasoning founded 
on close analysis. A student has forgotten, let us say, the 
accusative singular of the Greek v/ord, iXirk. He remembers, 
however, the reasoning process by which he first fixed in his 
mind the fact that third declension nouns in -t?, when ac- 
cented on the last syllable, have the lengthened accusative, 
to avoid the abrupt stop. Thus the accusative iXirtSa, for- 
gotten in itself, is remembered as one link in a chain of reason- 
ing. In the same way, one can repeat a geometrical demon- 
stration, though one has forgotten it, by beginning with the 
close analysis of the figure ; one can recover the lost date, by 
reasoning from some fact associated with it, by arguing, for 
example, that, a statesman who smoked could not have 
lived before the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It behooves, 
therefore, even the person of quick intuition and of ready 
memory to train his reasoning power. The flash of inspi- 
ration may be more brilliant, but is surely far less steady, 
than the light of reason. The Aladdin role in the mental 
life is no sustained part; the genius which appears at one's 
first bidding may well forbear to come at a second summons. 
In plain English, the power to analyze and to reason is rela- 
tively stable, whereas unreasoned association is capricious 
and untrustworthy. It is, therefore, the part of wisdom to 
secure a reasoned theology or scientific system or practical 
philosophy, precisely because one thus has the chance to 
review and to recall it. 

This suggests another advantage of reasoning over im- 
mediate association: the opportunity which it offers to the 
candid person to revise and to amend his results. The most 
dogmatic and unyielding of individuals is the man who has 



156 A First Book in Psychology 

jumped at his conclusions. He is naturally tenacious of them, 
because he has no idea how he came by them and no hope of 
gaining any others if he lets them go. So the most ardent 
sectarian is the one who doesn't know the raison d^etre of his 
own sect, and the most zealous political partisan can give you 
no reason for his vote beyond the utterance of a talismanic 
name or symbol. It would be too much, of course, to claim 
that every reasoning person is open-minded ; but it is quite 
fair to say that only persons who reason are open-minded. 
For nobody can reverse his decision who cannot retrace the 
path of deliberate reasoning which has led up to it. 

So far, only the mainly individual advantages of reason- 
ing have been considered. Reasoning has, none the less, a 
distinctly social value. For the reasoner has at least a fight- 
ing chance of sharing his results with other people's. The 
lucky man who guesses correctly may be brilliant and in- 
spiring, but he cannot well be convincing. He may be abso- 
lutely certain that prohibition does not prohibit, or that 
Sophocles is greater than Aeschylus, or that Hegelianism is 
absurd; he can even temporarily impose his enthusiastic 
beliefs on other people, but he cannot work permanent 
change in their intellectual convictions. We are constantly 
hearing that argument is futile, and yet there seems no other 
way of effectively sharing one's conclusions. 

It would, however, be unwise to conclude that the results 
of reasoning are inevitably good. On the contrary, there is 
always danger lest deductive reasoning be trivial, and lest 
inductive reasoning be misleading. Deductive reasoning, 
in the first place, is a waste of time if it is concerned with 
unimportant matters which are as well turned over to the 
swifter process of associative imagination; and deductive 



The Uses and Dangers of Reasoning 157 

reasoning is deadening and dulling when it chokes the spon- 
taneity of imagination. There is no more tiresome human 
being than the man who insists on arguing every unimportant 
detail. Even greater peril attends the abuse of inductive 
reasoning — namely, incomplete induction based on scanty 
and overhasty observation. General conclusions, inade- 
quately established yet obstinately cherished, are terrible 
barriers in the way of progress. Indeed, strictly speaking, 
no absolute certainty attaches to a general proposition based 
on an induction. As Hume says, "experience can be allowed 
to give direct and certain information of those precise ob- 
jects only . . . which fell under its own cognizance;" and 
it is very rarely possible to examine directly all instances 
referred to in an inductively grounded universal judgment. 
One cannot, for example, measure the results of all trans- 
formations of energy; and one cannot observe that every 
particle of matter in the universe attracts every other. The 
highest degree of probability attaches to the great induc- 
tions of science; and there is undoubted utility in inductions 
based on fewer observations, provided such inductions 
are used purely as working hypotheses to be thrown aside 
when found to conflict with fresh observations. But there is 
absolutely no excuse for the hasty induction except as starting- 
point for further investigation. The progress of science has 
been constantly obstructed by this over-tenacious clinging 
to the results of incomplete inductions — to the corpuscular 
theory of light, for example, or to catastrophism as expla- 
nation of the extinction of prehistoric forms of life. And 
the progress of culture is perpetually retarded by the hope- 
lessly persistent generalizations of shallow thinkers and 
superficial observers. Hasty inductions about people and 



158 A First Book in Psychology 

nations are especially unsafe, because human beings, as com- 
pared with physical phenomena, are peculiarly irregular in 
behavior. And yet books about America and France and 
Turkey are still written as the outcome of three-months' ob- 
servations and we are still taught that all Frenchmen are in- 
sincere, that all Americans are materiahstic, and that all Ger- 
mans are musical. To be sure, many observations contradict 
all these conclusions, but the motto of the inveterate general- 
izer has been well stated in the words, " If the facts don't cor- 
respond with my theory, so much the worse for the facts." 
The truth is that there should be no exception to the rule: 
inadequate inductions are never to be made except as basis 
for necessary decision or for further scientific testing. 

c. Bodily Conditions and Accompaniments of Thought — 
in Particular of Reasoning 

We reminded ourselves at the outset of our study that 
physiological and psychical phenomena seem to correspond 
closely, and that the human body is the most constant of 
the objects of our perception. Accordingly we undertook to 
classify and, as far as possible, to explain the facts of , our 
consciousness by constant reference to regularly preceding, 
accompanying, and following bodily processes. We have 
now to carry out this part of our programme with reference to 
thought, and in particular with reference to reasoning. So 
far as brain processes are concerned, little need be added 
to what has been said about the brain conditions of rela- 
tional experience.* More obviously significant than these 
hypothesized brain conditions are the observable bodily re- 
actions which accompany thinking. They vary, of course, 

* Cf. Clv-pter VIIL, p. 128. 



Bodily Accompaniments of Reasoning 159 

with the different forms of thought, but we should notice 
especially first, the habitual reactions called forth by concep- 
tions (as by perceptions) ; * and second, the delayed and 
often hesitating reactions which accompany reasoning. The 
habitual movements corresponding to our conceptions 
have been discussed in the preceding chapter. f The hesi- 
tating reactions of reasoning demand further comment. As 
contrasted with the relatively immediate reactions which 
accompany our perceiving, our imagining, and even certain 
forms of thinking, — swift comparisons, for example, — the 
outward behavior in reasoning is markedly slow. Let us 
suppose, for example, that a boy jumps into his dory and 
pushes off for a row. To place the oars in the rowlocks is 
a reaction, coordinated through experience, which follows at 
once at sight of the oars. But suppose that the oars have been 
left behind, and that he reasons out, somewhat as follows, 
the way of getting back to shore : — 

An oar is simply an oblong board ; 

Any oblong board will serve as oar ; 

The seat or the board in the bottom is an oblong board; 

The seat will serve as oar. 

The bodily reactions which accompany this reasoning do not 
follow instantaneously on his consciousness that the oars are 
gone. There is perhaps a moment, while he is thinking of 
the forgotten oars,- when he makes no movement; then his 
eyes wander from one end to the other of the boat; then he 
grasps the board in the bottom of the boat and tries in vain to 
pry it up ; finally he loosens the seat and begins awkwardly 

* Cf. Chapter V., p. 88. 
t Cf. Chapter IX., p. 13S. 



i6o A First Book in Psychology 

to paddle with it. Such a series of bodily motions is sharply 
contrasted on the one hand with the instantaneous and co- 
ordinated reaction which would have followed on the percep- 
tion of the oars, and on the other hand with the equally 
immediate but uncoordinated, chaotic, excited reactions which 
would have accompanied a mainly emotional (that is, fright- 
ened), unreasoning consciousness that the oars were gone.* 
In this latter case there would have been no pause, no regular 
movements of eyes and hands, but rather excited, interrupted 
movements — shrieks, excited waving of the hands, jumping 
from one end to another of the boat. Conceivably, one of 
these excited movements might have turned out to be suc- 
cessful in getting the boat to shore, — for instance, he might 
accidentally have seized the boat-hook, have swept it back and 
forth in the water, and so have brought himself toward land, — 
but this success would have been neither a result nor a proof 
of his having reasoned out the way of reaching the shore. 
It would have been the accidental outcome of the random 
movements that accompany emotional consciousness. 

The obviously hesitating and delayed character of reason- 
ing reactions has furnished to comparative psychologists an 
important objective criterion of the occurrence of reasoning 
in young children and in animals.^ Untechnical observers 
incorrectly suppose that the spontaneous, untaught per- 
formance of any successful action, which is not an instinctive 
response, is in itself a proof of reasoning. Accordingly, a 
dog who opens a new gate or who, unbidden, brings a sponge 
when his master is bailing out a boat is held to reason. The 
objection to this conclusion lies in the fact that the animal 
may have performed the supposedly reasoned act either 

* Cf. Chapter XI., p. 206. 



Bodily Accompaniments of Reasoning i6i 

through accidental immediate reaction or else through mem- 
ory, not through reasoning. The dog who brings the sponge 
has, presumably, often seen the sponge both in the boat and 
in the shed to which he runs to fetch it ; immediate association 
without reasoning suffices to explain his action. And the 
dog who opens the gate may have opened it first by an acci- 
dental movement, and later by memory of that movement. 

To test this last hypothesis, many psychologists have ex- 
perimented in the following fashion: The dog, cat, bird, 
monkey, or other animal on whom the experiment has been 
made, has been confined, when more or less hungry, in a cage, 
or large box ; food has been placed in sight of him, but outside 
his enclosure ; and this has been so arranged that the ani- 
mal may escape by "manipulating some simple mechanism" 
through movements which he is perfectly capable of making — 
for example, by ''pulling down a loop of wire, depressing a 
lever, or turning a button." The animals have invariably 
responded by instinctive, excited, random movements of all 
sorts — by leaping, biting, clawing, trying to squeeze through 
holes. In other words, they have responded with the imme- 
diate, random, excess movements characteristic of the affective 
and excited consciousness, not with the delayed and relatively 
calm responses of the reasoning mind. In the course of 
these excited movements they have, it is true, chanced, ordi- 
narily, on the successful reaction which has released them from 
confinement. But such a reaction is certainly no proof of 
reasoning. For not only is it made in the course of the 
animal's chaotic, random movements; it is often, though 
not always, an action never repeated. To quote Professor 
Thorndike: "In the case of some difficult associations," 
the animals "would happen to do the thing six or seven 



i62 A First Book in Psychology 

times, but after long periods of promiscuous scrabbling, and 
then forever after would fail to do it." This observation has 
been substantiated by other experimenters, and shows abun- 
dantly that in these cases the successful acts are performed 
accidentally, and not through reasoning. For what one has 
reasoned out, one remembers: in Thorndike's words: "If 
they had acted from inference in any case, they ought not to 
have failed in the seventh or eighth trial. What had been 
inferred six times should have been inferred the seventh." * 

It is fair to conclude, on the basis of this evidence, that 
there is so far no proof of the occurrence of animal reasoning. 
None the less, many animals possess an alert and many-sided 
intelligence ; for the immediately associated imagination may, 
as has been pointed out, lead to the same result, in action, as 
the reasoned conclusion. In questioning the ability of higher 
animals to reason, we are not, therefore, questioning their 
capacity to act effectively, or their possession of rich percepts 
and of swift-coming images. 

IV. Thought and Language 

A brief consideration of the nature and the function of 
language is rightly included in this chapter ; for conventional 
language is, in a way, both effect and condition of the two 
significant factors in thought : generalization and abstraction. 
Generalization in its two forms, conception and general judg- 
ment, has already been considered. By abstraction ^ is meant 
attention, with emphasis upon the excluding aspect of atten- 
tion. For in attending to anything one abstracts from the 
unattended-to part of the total object of experience; and in 

* Monograph Supplement, No. 8, of the Psychological Review. Cf. 
Psychological Review, Vol. V., p. 550. 



Thought and Language 163 

this sense the attended-to is the abstract (more literally, the 
abstracted), and attention is abstraction. Language, in its 
widest sense, is an aggregate of bodily reactions (or results 
of bodily reaction) — in particular, an aggregate of articulate 
sounds or of gestures — by which conscious beings communi- 
cate with each other/ Of language, thus defined, there are 
two forms ; and the first of these is natural language in which 
the communicated sounds and gestures are mere immediate 
and instinctive reactions, imitative and inter jectional in their 
origin * The different barks by which a dog signals to an- 
other, 'food,' 'danger,' 'friend,' are instances of this so-called 
'natural language.' Obviously it is highly significant in the 
development of social relations, emotional and purposive, of 
conscious beings with each other. Certainly, however, it need 
not involve thought of any sort. And — what seems at first 
sight more curious — natural language can be understood by 
such animals only as are of common species and environment. 
Mr. Garner, for example, who spent many months in learning 
the 'language' of monkeys, in one of our Zoos, was disap- 
pointed in the hope of gaining thereby an understanding of 
the cries and calls of monkeys in the African jungles. This 
is because the natural sounds and movements are so variously 
modified by differences in bodily structure and in environ- 
ment. 

With conventional language the case is different. The 
word, just because it is not, in its present form, the instinc- 
tive expression of any feeling, or the copy of any natural sound 
or shape, may be learned by all individuals who are capable 
of apprehending and producing it. A word is, in fact, an 

* Cf. Chapter V., p. 89, and Appenxlix, Section V. The student is ad- 
vised to read: C. H. Judd, "Psychology, General Introduction," Chapter X. 



164 A First Book in Psychology 

artificial sign realized as representative of something besides 
itself. The ability to know a given sound or gesture as a sign 
demands first, abstraction, that is, exclusive attention to the 
representative character as distinguished from all the more 
naturally interesting sense-qualities of the sound or the 
gesture; and second, generalization, that is, the grouping 
together of a lot of sensibly dissimilar sounds and motions 
by virtue of this likeness of function. Animals seem to 
lack this ability to abstract and generalize the sign-character, 
that is, to learn that phenomena so different as words pro- 
nounced, barks, and paws crossed are alike in the character 
of standing-for-something.^ It follows that animals make 
and understand sounds and movements which actually serve 
as signs, but that they do not know sounds and movements as 
belonging together to the class ' signs.' Thus, I may teach my 
dog. Doc, that a sharp bark will secure release from confine- 
ment, or that crossing his paws will bring him food, and I may 
even teach him to distinguish certain words, as 'food' and 
'water,' and to associate them with the appropriate objects. 
But he knows these words and barks and postures, each for 
each, as associated with a particular object, not as possessed 
of the general character of standing-for-something else.* 

It has thus appeared that abstraction and generalization are 
essential to the formation of conventional language; and it 
must now be shown that abstraction and generalization (the 
important factors of thought) are greatly facilitated by con- 
ventional language. Conventional language aids abstrac- 
tion or attention, because the reference of any word may be 
so limited. I may, it is true, abstract without the use of 
words — for example, in looking at a marble, I may attend 

* Cf. James, "Principles of Psychology," Vol. II., p. 356. 



Thought and Language 165 

to its shape, abstracting from its color; but I cannot help 
seeing the color with the shape, and therefore the use of the 
word 'spherical,' referring as it does to form exclusively, 
assists abstraction. In other words, verbal imagination lacks 
the distracting complexity of concrete imagination. 

Language must, in the second place, aid generalization, since 
every word of a conventional language (exclusive of its proper 
nouns and its interjections) is a general term — that is, the 
consciousness of a word may suggest any one of a whole group 
of objects. Of course a concrete image sometimes serves this 
same purpose of suggesting a group of similar objects, but 
the very poverty and simplicity of the word specially fits it for 
this general reference. The image, for example, of my special 
lynx muff will be followed by the consciousness of places where 
I have carried it, railroad stations in which I have left it, and 
the like, whereas the perception or imagination of the word 
*muff,' free of vivid, particular associations, more readily 
recalls the whole class of muffs. Thus, words serve often as 
a sort of tag, or sign, for the class once formed, an artificial 
help toward distinguishing and remembering it. 

But while it is thus abundantly evident that thought and 
language are closely related, we must guard ourselves against 
two psychologically untenable views: first, the supposition 
that words invariably suggest classes of objects, and second, 
the belief that every general term implies a corresponding 
conception. As to the first point: experience shows that 
though a word is always a general term in the sense that it 
may suggest a class of objects, yet it actually often suggests 
a single particular object or relation. The word 'wave,' 
for example, in the lines, "The breaking waves dashed high, 
on a stern and rockbound coast," may, of course, suggest the 



i66 A First Book in Psychology 

class ^ waves ' and may be followed by a series of resembling 
images — say of waves of the sea and of air-vibrations. More 
likely, however, the word at once suggests a concrete object or 
scene ; and one has a vision of a headland of the rocky New 
England coast. Indeed, the aim of poet and of narrator 
is precisely to hold words to the function of suggesting particu- 
lar scenes and emotions and to prevent their use as representa- 
tive of the class or group. Thus the potential general term 
may remain a mere verbal image. In the second place, a 
word may be a general term and perform its function of sug- 
gesting similars while yet it corresponds to no conception 
or general notion. This is the case wherever the word-con- 
sciousness is unaccompanied by an awareness of generality. 
I may read the word ' chest,' for instance, and it may suggest to 
me a series of boxes of different shapes and sizes, and yet I 
may not be conscious of any generality. In this case, 
though the spoken or written word 'chest' may be called a 
'general term,' the verbal imagination of 'chest' is not, 
according to our doctrine, a conception. 

It is thus evident that words need not correspond directly 
with conceptions. It is equally important to realize that 
conception and, indeed, all forms of thinking, are possible 
without language.^ It is true that most of us think in words. 
We find it difficult or impossible to carry out a long train of 
reasoning without formulating in words the different stages of 
it ; and even when we reason silently, we are likely to discover 
ourselves imagining suh silentio the words of our argument. 
In conception, also, the verbal imagination often forms the 
centre of our experience ; so that, for instance, the conception 
'truth' almost always includes a verbal image. Etymologists, 
indeed, argue that the absence from a given language of a 



Thought and Language 167 

particular sort of words or signs is probably indication of a 
lack of the corresponding conceptions. Savages unpossessed 
of a system of numerals count up to five or six only, and 
perform no intricate arithmetical operations; and from the 
paucity of color-terms in Homeric Greek it is argued, not un- 
reasonably (though not decisively), that the Hellenes of this 
period discriminated few colors. But all this simply shows 
that conventional language facilitates and establishes thought, 
and that the two develop by a sort of mutual interrelation. To 
insist, as Max Miiller insists, that thought is impossible with- 
out language, is to overlook the outcome of much introspec- 
tion and to misapprehend the nature as well of thought as of 
language. Conventional language is, as has been said, a 
system of signs, composed of certain images, usually auditory, 
motor, or visual. Thinking, on the other hand, necessarily 
includes a consciousness of impersonal relations. It is ab- 
surd to assert that the experience of objects as related is abso- 
lutely dependent on one's possession of any specific set of 
images. 

Certain experiences of the deaf and dumb furnish interest- 
ing testimony on exactly this point. D'Estrella, an educated 
deaf-mute, has given a detailed account of his moral and 
theological reasoning in the very early years of his neglected 
childhood.* He had never attended school, knew nothing 
of the conventional gesture-language, and possessed, in fact, 
only a few rude signs, none of them standing for abstract 
ideas. Yet, during this time, he not only gained a belief that 
the moon is a person, — a conclusion carefully reasoned from 
facts of the m-oon's motion and regular appearance, — but, by 
meditating on other nature-facts, he found for himself a god, 

* James, Philosophical Review, Vol. I., pp. 613 seq. 



1 68 A First Book in Psychology 

a Strong Man behind the hills, who threw the sun up into 
the sky as boys throw fireballs, who puffed the clouds from 
his pipe, and who showed his passion by sending forth the 
wind. Mr. Ballard, another deaf-mute, describes a parallel 
experience,* his meditation "some two or three years before 
. . . initiation into the rudiments of written language," on 
''the question. How came the world into being?" Testimony 
of this sort, though of course it may be criticised as in- 
volving the memory of long-past experiences, confirms the 
antecedent probability that thinking may be carried on in 
any terms — concrete as well as verbal. Whenever one is 
conscious of a group, or of a member of a group, then 
one is conceiving. The conception may include a verbal 
image, but need not. Whenever one is conscious of the 
wholeness of a complex, with emphasized part, then one is 
judging. The judgment often includes an imaged proposition, 
but does not necessarily contain it. Whenever, finally, one is 
conscious of successive, connected, discriminated wholes, one 
reasons. Reasoning, to be sure, more often than conceiv- 
ing or judging, has a verbal constituent, yet reasoning also 
may be carried on without words. 

Conversely, the use of the general term, proposition, or 
syllogism, is no sure indication of judging or reasoning. 
For these forms of word-series have become so habitual 
that one may use them without full realization of their 
meaning. For example, the proposition, "the apple is yel- 
low," may not mean more to the man who speaks it than 
the words 'yellow apple,' that is to say, no judgment at all, no 
experience of differentiated wholeness, need be involved ; and 
the propositional form of the words may be a mere unconscious 

* James, "The Principles of Psychology," Vol. I., pp. 266 seq. 



Thought and Language 169 

reflex, due to habit. Evidently, therefore, the psychologist 
must be on his guard against the false supposition, that wher- 
ever proposition or syllogism is, there also is judgment or 
reasoning. He, of all men, must be alive to the possibility that 
words do not always reveal, or even conceal, any 'thought 
within,' but that they may be used without any meaning, for 
mere pleasure in their liquid syllables, their rotund vowels, 
their emotional impressiveness. 



CHAPTER XI 

^ EMOTION 

I. The Nature of Emotion 

a. Emotion as Personal Attitude 

The I, or conscious self, as so far described, is an exclusively 
perceiving and imagining, recognizing and thinking self. 
But nobody merely sees and hears, thinks and imagines: 
rather, every self also loves and hates and enjoys and is 
disappointed. We shall turn now to the study of this affec- 
tively and emotionally conscious self. Emotion is, first and 
foremost, an intensely individualizing experience. In loving 
and fearing I am conscious of myself as this self and no other ; 
and I am, furthermore, conscious of the individual and unique 
nature of the friend whom I love or of the superior whom I 
fear. In more technical terms : both the subject and the 
object ^ * of emotion are realized as unique or irreplaceable. 
In this doubly individualizing character, emotion is distin- 
guished from perception and from all forms of thought, for 
in these I lay no special stress on myself, as just this indi- 
vidual, nor do I regard the object of my consciousness as 
peculiarly individual. Rather, I realize, reflectively if not 
immediately, that other selves see and hear as I do, and I 
assume that any other self must think as I do. It is true that, 

* These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to numbered 
divisions (§§) of the Appendix, Section XL 

170 



Emotion as Personal Attitude 171 

as I reflect on my life of imagination, I seem to have been in my 
imagining a peculiarly isolated, unique self. Yet this unique- 
ness and individuality forms no inherent part of the imagining. 
In my emotion, on the other hand, I immediately realize 
myself as a unique self ; I find it difficult to believe that there 
is any other lover or hater in the world, that there is any grief 
save my grief : in a word, I individualize myself in emotion. 
And with equal emphasis I individualize the object of my 
love or hate or fear. I love this child ; I hate that man ; I 
delight in this sunlit stretch of river. I do not love children, 
and hate men in general, and enjoy any river scene. To say 
that I love any such class or group is either mere fiction or 
else it is a metaphorical way of saying that I love this and this 
and this child, — in fact, that I cannot think of any child 
whom I do not love; that I hate every man whom I know; 
and that I delight in every river scene. Herein, again, 
emotion is distinguished from most other experiences. The 
objects of perception and imagination, it is true, and the 
objects of some forms of thought, are reflectively known as 
particular, — I say, for example, that I perceive this house 
and imagine this particular scene, — but such consciousness 
of the object as particular is a sort of after-experience, not 
at all an immediate, inherent factor in perceiving the house 
and in imagining the scene, whereas it is the very core of 
emotion to be conscious of the individual. 

In a second character, its receptiveness, emotion evidently 
resembles perception. In happiness and in unhappiness of 
every sort — in hope and in fear, in enjoyment and in dislike, 
in envy and in sympathy — I am conscious of being affected 
by my environment, that is, by the selves and by the things of 
which I am conscious. "My soul," as Coleridge says, lies 



172 A First Book in Psychology 

"passive, driven as in surges." All emotion includes this 
awareness of being influenced or affected — in a word, emo- 
tion is a receptive, or passive, experience. This character 
of emotion is often overlooked, partly because emotion is 
normally preceded or accompanied by very obvious bodily 
movements and partly because it is so often followed by the 
assertive, or active, conscious relations, will and faith. In 
the later study of these two other individualizing, yet assert- 
ive, experiences the inherent receptiveness of emotion will 
become more apparent.* 

h. Emotion as Affective Consciousness 

The Affective Elements 

As so far studied, emotion is, thus, an evidently complex, 
receptive, doubly individualizing experience with either 
personal or impersonal object. Emotion as complex or in- 
clusive experience has now to be regarded from another point 
of view. Perception, it will be remembered, is an experience, 
(i) immediately realized as receptive consciousness of exter- 
nalized and impersonal object, and (2) reflectively realized 
as shared with other selves; it is also (3) a sensational 
experience. The description of perception as sensational is 
gained by analyzing perception, without explicit reference to 
the perceiving self, into irreducible elements, — of color, 
quality, pitch, loudness, — each belonging to a definite 
time. Such an analysis, which is called 'structural,' must 
now be undertaken of emotion. We must know whether 
love and fear and envy and the rest reduce also to 
sensational elements, — say, of warmth and of pressure 

* Cf. Chapters XII., XIII. 



Emotion as Affective Consciousness 173 

due to heart-beat, — or whether they include other ele- 
ments of consciousness. When we put the question in this 
way, there is little doubt about the answer. An emotion is 
characterized, always, as pleasant or unpleasant (or both): 
for example, liking is pleasant and terror is unpleasant ; and 
pleasantness and unpleasantness are clearly elemental feelings. 
One can no more tell what one means by agreeableness or by 
disagreeableness than one can tell what redness and warmth 
and acidity are: in other words, these are distinct and irre- 
ducible experiences. 

From the class of sense-elements affections are, however, 
plainly differentiated. Unlike sensational elements, they are 
not always present in consciousness, and cannot conceiv- 
ably occur by themselves without belonging, as it were, 
to other experiences. The fact that we are not always 
conscious of either pleasantness or unpleasantness is ordi- 
narily expressed by saying that much of our every-day ex- 
perience is 'indifferent' to us. The other characteristic is 
clearly shown by the reflection that we are conscious, not of 
agreeableness or disagreeableness by itself, but always of an 
agreeable or disagreeable somewhat, of a pleasant familiarity, 
for example, or of an unpleasant taste. These distinctions, of 
course, are not immediate constituents of either pleasantness 
or unpleasantness, that is to say, when one is conscious of 
pleasure one does not necessarily say to oneself, "this experi- 
ence might have been perfectly indifferent, and the pleasant- 
ness of it belongs to its color consciousness." On the 
contrary, these are only possible after-reflections about the 
agreeableness or disagreeableness. The fact that the affec- 
tions are not always present in consciousness, and that they 
seem, as has been said, to 'belong to' other experience of 



174 ^ First Book in Psychology 

any order,* may be indicated by calling them 'attributive' 
elements of consciousness, f 

Some psychologists maintain that besides pleasantness 
and unpleasantness there are four other affective elements 
of consciousness (or 'feelings'); namely, excitement and 
tranquillity, tension, and relief.^ On this theory, there would 
be six affective elements of three sorts, opposed to each other 
two by two. In the opinion of the writer of this book, this is 
a mistaken view; and for the following reasons. In the first 
place, though emotions are rightly characterized as exciting or 
tranquillizing, ' excitement ' and ' tranquillization ' are complex 
rather than elemental experiences, fusions of temporal-rela- 
tional with organic-sensational consciousness. 'Tension,' in 
turn, seems to be nothing more nor less than attention; and 
attention, though classified as attributive element, and so 
coordinate with the class of affections, is not an affection. 
'Relief,' finally, seems to mean little more than absence from 
tension. We shall, therefore, abide by the traditional view 
that the elemental experiences peculiar to emotion are the 
two : pleasantness and unpleasantness. 

Emotions are characterized also — and that by common 
admission — by the organic sensations which they include. 
Most conscious experiences contain, of course, the vague aware- 
ness of bodily processes ; but in emotion these organic sensa- 
tions are peculiarly prominent. The experiences of quickened 
heart-beat, of faintness or of dizziness, of growing warmth or 
of creeping chill, are factors of most emotional experiences. 

* By the words ' of any order ' the attributive elements are distinguished 
from extensity, which, even if not always present, attaches only to sensational 
elements. 

t Cf . Appendix, Section III., § 34. 



The Forms of Emotion 175 

The mention of these experiences due to internal bodily 
changes suggests the problem of the physiological explana- 
tion of emotion. It will be convenient, however, to postpone 
this discussion to the fourth section of this chapter and to 
turn at once to a more detailed psychological analysis of 
emotions. 

II. The Forms of Emotion 

In the effort to be true to the distinctions of actual experi- 
ence, we shall find that emotions are commonly grouped 
according to the varying relations of different selves to each 
other and on the basis of the contrast between pleasantness 
and unpleasantness. Our study of emotional experiences 
will start from the following outline of the basal emotions : ^ — 

PERSONAL EMOTIONS 

I. Egoistic, Unsympathetic Emotions 
a. With other self as object: — 

I Happy (that is, pleasant) emotions : — 
{a) Without valuation of other self: — 

Happiness, realized as due to other self, Liking 

(&) With valuation : — 

Happiness, realized as due to other self, 
Who is, 
(i) Stronger than oneself. Reverence 

(2) Equal to oneself, Love(?), Friendship( ?) 

(3) Weaker than oneself, Tenderness( ?) 
2 Unhappy (that is, unpleasant) emotions : — 

{a) Without valuation: — 

Unhappiness, realized as due to other self. Dislike 

(&) With valuation : — 

Unhappiness, realized as due to others, 

Who are 
(i) Stronger than oneself, Terror 

(2) Equal to oneself, Hate 

(3) Weaker than oneself, Scorn 



176 A First Book in Psychology 

b. With myself as valued object: — 

1 As valued by myself, 

(a) Happiness in myself, regarded as worthy, Pride 

(6) Unhappiness in myself, regarded as unworthy, Humility 

2 As valued by others, 

(a) Happiness in- being admired, Vanity 

(b) Unhappiness in being scorned, Shame 

II. Altruistic, or Sympathetic, Emotions 

a. Homogeneous: — 

1 Happiness through shared happiness, Mitfreude 

2 Unhappiness through shared unhappiness, Pity 

b. Heterogeneous, or mixed : — 

1 Happiness through another's unhappiness, Malice 

2 Unhappiness through another's happiness, Envy 

IMPERSONAL EMOTIONS 
I. Egoistic 

Like 

Dislike 
Ennui 
Enjoyment of the familiar, 
etc. 
II. Altruistic (absorbing): — 

a Sensational, .Esthetic pleasure 

b Relational, Logical pleasure 

Sense of humor, 
etc. 

The fact must be emphasized that this outline makes no 
pretence of including all forms of emotion. Two omitted 
distinctions should specially be named : that between certain 
emotions according as their objects are past or future; and 
the distinction, already mentioned, between exciting and de- 
pressing emotions. From the former point of view, anxiety 
is distinguished from disappointment as having a future, not 
a past, object; and from the latter, hatred is different from 



a Sensational, 
b Relational, 



The Forms of Emotion 177 

extreme terror in that it is exciting and not depressing. All 
these distinctions might be added to the table of emotions, 
but at the risk of complicating it too greatly. 

a. Personal Emotion 

We have first to study the most primitive and most signifi- 
cant of the forms of emotion — personal emotion. It appears 
in the two well-marked phases which underlie all personal 
relation, as egoistic or as altruistic, that is, as laying stress on 
myself or on other self. We must, however, guard against 
the error of describing egoistic emotion as if it included no 
awareness of other self or selves. If this were true, there 
would be no personal emotion at all, for that demands the 
relation to a particular other self, and exists only in so far as 
it emphasizes and individuates the other self or other selves. 
Like and dislike, fear and gratitude, and all the rest, are ob- 
viously expressions of one's attitude to other selves, but 
these ' others ' are not realized as themselves caring and hating 
and fearing, but only as the conscious, yet unfeeling, targets or 
instruments to one's own emotions. 

It follows from this distinction that many kindly, good- 
natured feelings are rightly classed as unsympathetic. Mere 
liking, for example, is as unsympathetic and egoistic an 
experience as dislike. By this particular self one is 
pleasantly affected; by this other, unpleasantly. But the 
pleasure is as distinctly individual and unshared as the dis- 
satisfaction. The other settes are means to one's content or 
discontent, and are thought of as subordinated to one's own 
interests. 

We have, therefore, two distinct types of unsympathetic 
emotion. On the one hand, there is the moroseness, the 

N 



178 A First Book in Psychology 

discontent, the hostile fear or hate or contempt, of the man 
who realizes himself as unfavorably related to other selves. 
Quite as significant, on the other hand, is the unruffled 
good nature, the sunshiny content, the unaffected liking, or 
even gratitude, of the individual who feels that he is happy 
in his relations with other selves. The common temptation 
is, of course, to give to these genial feelings an ethical value, 
and to contrast dislike, as selfishness, with liking, as if that 
were unselfish. The truth is, however, that the one attitude 
is as ' egoistic ' as the other. To like people is to realize them 
as significant to one's own happiness, not to identify oneself 
with their happiness. And, in truth, a great part of what is 
known as 'love' of family or of country is of this strictly 
egoistic nature. Dombey loved his son because the boy was 
' important as a part of his own greatness ' ; and many a man 
loves family, church, or country merely as the embodiment 
of his own particular interests and purposes. 

It is even possible to secure other people's pleasure and to 
avoid paining them, not in the least to gain their happiness, 
but because their cries of grief assault our ears as their 
happy laughter delights us. The most consummately heart- 
less figure of modern literature, Tito Melema, is so tender- 
hearted that he turns his steps lest he crush an insect on 
the ground, and devotes a long afternoon to calming a little 
peasant's grief. '' The softness of his nature," we are told, 
'' required that all sorrow should be hidden away from him." 
But this same Tito Melema betrays wife and foster-father 
and country, in the interests of his own self-indulgence : other 
people's emotions are insignificant to him in themselves; he 
regards them only as the expression of them rouses him to 
delight or to sorrow; he never for an instant enters into 



Personal Emotion 179 

them, identifies himself with them, or makes them his 
own. 

The avoidance of another's pain does, it must be added, 
require what is sometimes called sympathy, the involuntary 
tendency to share the organic sensational consciousness of 
other people. The pain which one feels at the sight of some- 
body's wound is an illustration of this experience, known as 
' organic sympathy.' We are, however, here concerned with 
emotion not with sensation. 

Besides this fundamental difference between the personal 
emotions, liking and reverence and love, which involve pleas- 
antness, and the opposite ones, dislike, terror, and hate, which 
are unpleasant experiences, we must take account also of 
another difference, which marks off the simpler from the 
more complex form of these feelings. In all these experi- 
ences, our happiness or unhappiness is referred, as we have 
seen, to other selves, and is realized as connected with them. 
When the consciousness of this relation becomes explicit, 
that is, when other people are clearly and definitely realized 
as affecting us and as sources of our happiness or unhappi- 
ness, then those vaguer personal feelings of like and dislike 
give way to emotions in which the realization of others is 
more sharp-cut and more exactly defined. Closely regarded, 
the distinctions among these complex emotions are found to 
be based on the estimate which is formed of those ' other 
selves' who are means to one's happiness or unhappiness. 
When these other selves are realized as greater, stronger, 
than oneself, the resulting emotions are reverence and terror ; 
when they are conceived as on an equality with oneself, the 
emotions are love and hate; when they appear, finally, as 
weaker or inferior, the feelings are scorn and tenderness. 



i8o A First Book in Psychology 

It is not difficult to illustrate these abstractly worded 
definitions. Reverence, the individualizing, receptive, happy 
consciousness of a greater self, is the emotional attitude of 
child to father, of soldier to commander, of worshipper to 
God. It is the emotion thrilling through the lines of Cole- 
ridge to Wordsworth, ''friend of the wise and teacher of the 
good," and culminating in the last verses : — 

"... Friend! my comforter and guide! 
Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength ! " 

For the parallel emotion toward a self conceived neither as 
greater nor as weaker than oneself, there is no precise 
name. The terms ' love ' and ' friendship ' are employed in 
this chapter; but to this usage it may well be objected 
that these are no mere emotions, but that, in their 
complete form, love and friendship include the active atti- 
tudes of loyalty and trust. But, named or unnamed, there 
is surely a happy emotion which obliterates distinctions 
of greater and weaker. To paraphrase Aristotle : love is the 
character of friendship, and by love friends, however out- 
wardly unequal, "make themselves equal." The word 
'tenderness' even more inadequately expresses the happy 
emotion centred in some one weaker than oneself. It is the 
feeling of the mother for her child, of the master for the 
cherished pupil, of every lover for the beloved one who is weak 
or afraid. It is the feeling which stirred the heart of Alkestis 
for Admetos, the emotion which Sokrates felt when he played, 
in that "way which he had," with the hair of Phaidon, as 
he said, "To-morrow, I suppose, these fair locks will be 
severed." 

To turn to the unhappy emotions : every revolt from tyr- 



Personal Emotion i8i 

anny and oppression is a living illustration of the contrast 
between terror or fear and hatred. Why did the French 
peasantry, who endured the burdens of Louis Quatorze, rebel 
against the materially lessened impositions of Louis Seize? 
What is the nature of the emotional contrast between the two 
generations, only a century apart : in the earlier period, hap- 
less suffering from disease, starvation, and exaction of every 
sort, without the stirring of opposition ; a hundred years later, 
fierce and furious resentment against oppression and misery? 
There is only one answer to questions such as these. The 
peasants of the older period were still bound by the traditional 
belief that court and nobles were naturally above them, lof- 
tier and more powerful than they. Their feeling to these 
superior beings, realized as instruments to their own undoing, 
was of necessity, therefore, the paralyzing emotion of terror; 
but the feeling, though intense, remained impotent and 
futile, and led to no effective reaction so long as the nobles 
held, in the minds of these peasants, their position of lofty 
isolation. The French Revolution was, in fact, directly due 
to the spread of the doctrine of social equality. Rousseau's 
teaching of the essential likeness of man to man, once it took 
root in the mind of the French people, grew of necessity into 
the conviction that peasants and nobles were no longer 
separated by an impassable barrier. And with this convic- 
tion of their equality, the unnerving emotion of terror gave 
way to hate with its outcome of fury and rebellion. So in 
England, four centuries earlier, the peasants rebelled under 
Wat Tyler not through mere discontent with industrial con- 
ditions but because the levelling emotion of hate had been 
excited by the teaching of the Lollard priests and of John 
Ball. The men of Kent and of Essex, persuaded of the 



182 A First Book in Psychology 

essential equality of serf with master and of villein with 
landlord, no longer feared but hated the lords of the manor 
against whom they rose. 

Apparent exceptions are really illustrations of this prin- 
ciple, for the outburst of fury against one's superior always 
turns out to be due to a momentary denial of his superiority, 
a temporary tearing of the god from its pedestal. The fear 
of the superior beings readily, however, reasserts itself, and 
this explains the temporary nature of many revolts and the 
easy resumption of authority. A handful of soldiers may 
check the violence of a mob, because the vision of brass 
buttons and uniforms inspires an unreasoning conviction of 
the superiority of military force, and transforms hate and 
rage into futile fear. The insubordinate fury of usually 
obedient children is like mob-violence, a temporary assertion 
of equality with their old-time superiors ; and like mob-fury, 
the anger of children readily gives way to the old acceptance 
of authority. 

The emotion of scorn, finally, involves the conviction of 
another's inferiority. It is evidently impossible to despise 
a man, so long as one regards him as one's own superior, or 
even as one's equal. Contempt is, thus, the dissatisfaction 
involved in one's relation to an inferior person. The infe- 
riority may be real or imagined, and of any sort; but just 
as reverence or respect may be regarded as a virtue, so con- 
tempt is readily considered from the ethical standpoint, and 
it is rightly rated as morally unworthy if it takes account of 
the superficial inferiority of fortune or of station. 

These emotions have other selves as emphasized object. In 
contrast to them are emotions whose chief object is myself. 
" 'Tis evident," Hume says, '' that pride and humility have 



Personal Emotion 183 

the same object . . . self, of which we have an intimate 
memory and consciousness. According as our idea of our- 
self is more or less advantageous, we . . . are elated by 
pride or dejected by humility. . . . Every valuable quality 
of the mind," Hume continues, "... wit, good sense, 
learning, courage, integrity ; all these are the causes of pride, 
and their opposites of humility. Nor are these passions con- 
fin'd to the mind. ... A man may be proud of his agility, 
good mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing. . . . This 
is not all. The passion, looking farther, comprehends what- 
ever objects are in the least ally'd or related to us. Our 
country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens, 
horses, dogs, cloaths ; any of these may become a cause either 
of pride or of humility." * Spinoza sums up this conception 
in fewer words: Pride, or self-approval (acquiescentia) , is, he 
says, "joy arising from the fact that a man contemplates 
himself and his power to act," whereas "humility is sadness 
arising from this, that a man contemplates his own power- 
lessness." | 

Besides this obvious distinction between the happiness of 
self-content and the unhappiness of self-depreciation, there 
is a difference between emotions in which the core of my 
happiness or unhappiness is my relatively independent valu- 
ation of myself and those in which my elation and dejec- 
tion consist primarily in my consciousness of others' estima- 
tion of me. From this point of view, we may distinguish 
pride, as ^'isolated self-esteem" in which "the mind stops at 
home, turns in upon itself, and sits before the glass in pleased 
admiration," from vanity, the "dependent and sympathetic 
type of self-esteem," which is "uneasy till confirmed by 

* "A Treatise of Human Nature," Book II., Part I., § 2. f " Ethics," Pt. III. 



184 ^ First Book in Psychology 

other voices; unable to refrain from inviting applause." '•' 
And, similarly, we may contrast humility with shame, the 
shrinking consciousness of the loathing of one's fellows. 
Spinoza names these emotions ' glory ' and ' shame. ' They 
arise, he says simply, "when a man believes himself to be 
praised or blamed." 

It is not necessary to insist on just these meanings for the 
words pride and vanity, humility and shame. 'Vanity,' for 
example, is often limited in application to baseless and empty 
self-conceit ; and ' humility ' may be used of a tranquil realiza- 
tion, untouched by sadness, of one's low estate. But what- 
ever names be chosen to express the distinctions, it is im- 
portant to the analyst of human emotions to recognize the 
experiences to which these terms are here applied. Aristotle's 
great -souled man who, "being worthy of great things, rates 
himself highly," is proud, not vain. His supreme content 
is rooted in self-satisfaction, and he disregards, if he does 
not scorn, the approval of other people. Malvolio, on the 
other hand, is vain: he delights in his appearance precisely 
because he believes himself to be the observed of all observers. 
The despairing self-contempt of Philip Nolan, "the Man 
without a Country," is so deep that he has no thought for 
the estimate of his companions; but Sigismond's shame is 
his consciousness of the scorn of the Bohemians who have 
heard the stinging reproach of John Hus: I came here 
trusting in the word of an emperor. It is probable, indeed, 
that the social forms of these emotions are original and 
primitive; and it may even be that pride and humility are 
never utterly self -sufficient ; and that, in one's seemingly 
isolated approval or contempt of self, one is, after all, judg- 

* James Martineau, "Types of Ethical Theory," Vol. II., pp. 237-238. 



Personal Emotion 185 

ing oneself by the standard of the ideal spectator or by that 
of society. 

The experiences which we have so far described have all 
been characterized by their egoistic narrowing of conscious- 
ness, by their heavy emphasis on one's own concerns and 
interests, by their incurable tendency to regard other selves 
merely as ministers to one's own individual satisfactions and 
dissatisfactions. The sympathetic emotions are manifesta- 
tions of the altruistic phase of self -consciousness, the widen- 
ing embrace of other people's interests, the sharing of other 
people's happiness and unhappiness. In one's sympathetic 
relations with other people, one regards them as possessing 
a significance of their own, quite aside from their relations 
of advantage or disadvantage to oneself, and one shares 
these new interests and ideals in such wise as to enlarge the 
boundaries of one's own experience. 

Emotions of personal sympathy are of two main types: 
I am happy in another's happiness or unhappy in his 
grief. There is no English word to express the sharing of 
joy, and we are forced to borrow from the Germans their 
exact and perfect word, Mitfreude. The poverty of the 
English language expresses, unhappily, a defect in human 
nature. I certainly am quicker to sympathize with 
people's sorrow than to delight in their happiness. It is 
easier to weep to my friends' mourning than to dance to 
their piping, easier to share their griefs than to share their 
amusements, infinitely easier to console them than to make 
holiday with them. 

The greatest distinction in these simple feelings of sym- 
pathy is in the narrowness or the wideness of them. There 
may be but one individual whose experience I actually share, 



i86 A First Book in Psychology 

whose joys and sorrows I feel as mine. In the presence of 
this one other self my strictly individual happiness is disre- 
garded, and the boundaries of my self-consciousness are 
enlarged. I live no longer my own life, but this other life — 
or rather, my own life includes this other life. Yet my 
relations to all others save this cherished one may remain 
narrowly egoistic : I may still be concerned only for myself, 
and interested in these others only as foils to my emotions. 
Life and literature abound in examples of sympathy within 
the narrowest limits, of egoistic emotion giving way at one 
point only. Aaron Latta is a modern illustration of this 
attitude: he lives his self-centred life undisturbed by the 
wants, the hopes, the cares, of the village life about him, but 
he is quick to notice the shade on Elspeth's brow and the 
merest quiver on her lip. With a true intuition, indeed, 
the novelists and the dramatists have united to represent the 
most unsympathetic of mortals as vulnerable at some point. 
Dickens, the keen student of the emotions, has only one 
Scrooge, 'quite alone in the world . . . warning all human 
sympathy to keep its distance,' and represents even the 
Squeerses as possessed of 'common sympathies' with their 
own children. 

Closely following upon the narrowest form of sympathy, 
which recognizes the claims and adopts the interests of one 
individual only, are family-feeling, club-feeling, college-feel- 
ing, church-affiliation, and all the other sympathies with 
widening groups of people. For sympathy is normally of 
slow growth. The more primitive emotions are naturally 
self-centred, and they give place only gradually to the iden- 
tification of oneself, first with the joys and griefs of one's 
mother or nurse or most intimate playmate, then with the 



Personal Emotion 187 

emotional experiences of the whole family group, later with 
the hopes and fears and regrets and delights of a larger 
circle. It is interesting to observe that, with every widening 
of one's sympathy, the limiting circumference of one's own 
self is pushed farther outward. The sympathetic man has 
always a richer, concreter personality than the self-centred 
man. He has actually shared in experiences that are not im- 
mediately his own; he has seen with others' eyes and heard 
with their ears, and his pulses have beat high to their hopes 
and joys ; his experience has been enlarged by his sympathies. 

There is something abnormal, therefore, in the checking 
at any point of this outgrowth of sympathy. People whose 
sympathies embrace only the members of their family, their 
cult, or their class, are only incompletely human, for a lack 
of emotional comprehension, or sympathy, marks a stunted 
personality. Even patriotism, so far as it limits sympathy 
to feeling with the inhabitants of any one corner of the globe, 
deprives a man of his birthright : communion in the joys 
and sorrows of life with ' all nations of men,' or rather, with 
that which Tolstoi calls 'the one nation.' 

We have, finally, to consider heterogeneous sympathetic 
emotions: happiness through realization of another's un- 
happiness, that is, malice, and unhappiness through con- 
sciousness of another's happiness, that is, envy. By common 
consent, these are morally undesirable emotions, yet there 
can be no question that they are sympathetic, as well as 
egoistic, that is, that they require a genuine sharing of an- 
other's experience. I cannot envy you, if I am so deeply 
occupied with my own emotions that I do not realize you as 
happy. And I cannot really know that you are happy with- 
out, in some degree, experiencing or sharing your happiness. 



i88 A First Book in Psychology 

This, to be sure, is often denied : I am said to possess the 
idea of an emotion without experiencing the emotion itself. 
But, surely, to be conscious of emotion means nothing if it 
does not mean to have the emotion. I may, of course, have 
the purely verbal images, 'happy,' 'unhappy,' 'emotion', 
without any affective consciousness and without any realiza- 
tion of myself in relation to others; but nobody's emotion 
can influence my own without my experiencing or sharing 
it to some degree. The resulting relations to other selves 
are, therefore, heterogeneous sympathetic, or mixed, emotions. 
Not only do they combine happiness and unhappiness, but 
they supplement a sympathetic by an egoistic emotion : the 
happiness which we faintly share with another, in our envy, 
is swamped in the egoistic unhappiness which it arouses, 
and the unhappiness of our fellow, dimly felt in our mali- 
ciousness, is swallowed up in a surging happiness that is 
quite our own. 

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that malice 
and envy exhaust the nature of this emotional experience. 
Barrie has shown us a perfect embodiment of mixed emotion 
in the figure of Sentimental Tommy. Never was anybody 
more sympathetic than Tommy, boy and man. He entered 
into the feeling of friend and of foe alike : divined and shared 
in Elspeth's loneliness, Aaron's bitterness, Grizel's passion 
and scorn, and Corp's loyalty. He never could have been 
what he was to all of them, had he not, up to a certain point, 
shared actually in their feelings; had he not believed in 
himself as Elspeth and Corp believed in him, hated himself 
as Aaron hated him, alternately loved and despised himself 
as Grizel loved and despised him. And yet all this sym- 
pathetic communion with others was merely a stimulus to 



The Forms of Emotion 189 

his own private emotions, a ministry to the luxury of his self- 
occupation, whether delicious pleasure or equally delicious 
misery. Such sympathy, as element of one's egoistic and un- 
shared happiness or unhappiness, is that which is here called 
heterogeneous sympathetic emotion. 

&. Impersonal Emotion 

This chapter has so far been concerned with personal 
emotion, the conscious relation of happy or unhappy self 
with other selves. But one may like or dislike the furnish- 
ings of a room as cordially as one likes or dislikes its in- 
mates, and one may be as desperately frightened by a 
loaded gun as by a tyrannical master. This means that 
emotion, though primarily a realized relation of oneself 
to other selves, may be also a relation of oneself to imper- 
sonal objects. 

Some emotions, to be sure, are necessarily personal. 
Every form of sympathy presupposes our realization of 
other selves, and reverence, like contempt, is felt toward 
selves and not toward things. Hate, also, is a personal 
emotion — since, although we often feel a certain irritation, 
more than bare dislike, for inanimate objects when they 
thwart our purposes, yet in these cases we probably per- 
sonify the things at which we are angry. Such personifica- 
tion of inanimate objects is ridiculously clear in a child's 
anger at the stones which refuse to be built into forts, or at 
the doors which resist his efforts to open them; and even 
grown-up resentment against smoking fires and catching 
hooks involves a personification of the offending object. 

Impersonal emotion, the conscious relation of happy or 
unhappy self to event or to thing is, like personal emotion, 



iQO A First Book in Psychology 

an individualizing, or particularizing, experience. Just as I 
love or hate, pity or envy, this particular person or these 
people, and do not impartially and indiscriminately care for 
'anybody,' so, also, I like or dislike this special thing or these 
things, am bored by this monotony, and pleased with that 
familiar experience; and my aesthetic pleasure is always an 
absorption in this Chopin Mazurka, this tree white with 
blossoms, this Shakespeare sonnet, not an indiscriminate 
delight in a class or group. 

We have already instanced impersonal like and dislike 
for things, not people. We have many experiences, also, of 
satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the relational aspects of 
things or events. Our outline names only two of these: 
enjoyment of the familiar, and the parallel distaste for the 
repeated or monotonous. Both feelings are well known: 
the cosey comfort of the old chair and the worn coat, even 
when one can find a thousand flaws in both; and, on the 
other hand, the fiat, stale profitlessness of the well-known 
scene and the every-day objects. We, poverty-stricken, 
English-speaking people, have no noun by which to desig- 
nate this latter experience: we may call it tediousness, or 
may speak of ourselves as 'bored,' but we are often driven 
to borrow one of the adequate foreign expressions, ennui or 
Langweile. 

Like and dislike and the relational emotions are dis- 
tinctly egoistic, laying special stress on myself and my con- 
dition. Among the impersonal emotions, however, are 
certain highly significant experiences which are embodi- 
ments of the other phase, the altruistic, self-effacing phase 
of consciousness. The first of these, aesthetic emotion,* 
must be considered briefly: a full treatment of it would 



Impersonal Emotion 191 

require another volume, and would lead us far afield into 
domains of philosophy and of art. ^Esthetic emotion is the 
conscious happiness in which one is absorbed, and, as it 
were, immersed in the sense-object. No words describe 
aesthetic emotion better than Byron's question : — 

"Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?" 

For the aesthetic consciousness, as truly as sympathetic 
emotion, is a widening and deepening of self — never a loss 
of self — by identification of the narrow myself, not with 
other selves, but with sense-things. 

It is important to dwell on the consciousness of self in- 
volved in the aesthetic feeling because there is, as we have 
seen, a sense in which the aesthetic consciousness, because 
it refers to things, not to people, is rightly called impersonal. 
But absorption in the beautiful is never a loss of self. Most 
of that with which one is usually concerned is indeed lost: 
one's practical needs, one's scientific interests, even one's 
loves and hates and personal relationships are vanished, but 
in place of these there is the beauty of this or that sense- 
thing, which one feels, accepts, and receives, widening thus 
the confines of one's personality. There is an easy intro- 
spective verification of this account of the aesthetic conscious- 
ness. Let a man scrutinize closely the feeling with which he 
emerges from one of those ^pauses of the mind,' in which 
he 'contemplates' an object 'aesthetically': he is sure to 
experience a curious feeling of having shrunken away from 
a certain largeness and inclusiveness of experience, and 
though he has regained interests which he had temporarily 
lacked, he has also lost something from his very self. 



192 A First Book in Psychology 

From this general description of aesthetic emotion as an 
adoption and acknowledgment of sense-objects, an immer- 
sion of oneself in the external and objective, we enter upon 
a more detailed consideration of its characteristics. The 
aesthetic emotion is, first and foremost, enjoyment, not dis- 
satisfaction, a mode of happiness, never of unhappiness. 
This follows from the completeness of absorption in the 
aesthetic object, for unhappiness and dissatisfaction involve 
always desire, aversion, or resentment, the effort to escape 
from one's environment. The aesthetic emotion is, therefore, 
a consciousness always of the beautiful, never of the ugly. 
Not the emotional aesthetic experience but the reflective 
aesthetic judgment has to do with ugliness; for ugliness is 
not a positive term at all, but a reflective description of an 
object as unaesthetic, an epithet which can only be applied 
after one has had experience of the beautiful. • 

The description of the aesthetic consciousness as absorp- 
tion of oneself in the sense-object indicates a second charac- 
ter of the aesthetic experience, its attentiveness. This con- 
ception of aesthetic emotion, as involving attention, helps us 
account for the things which people call beautiful. It is an 
open question whether simple experiences, such as single 
colors or tones, have any beauty; but if we do attribute 
beauty to them, it is certainly by virtue of their intensity or 
distinctness, as when we admire the bright color or the 
distinct sound. For intense and distinct experiences are, as 
we know, ready objects of attention, so that it is fair to con- 
clude that sensational experiences are beautiful, if ever, when 
easily attended to. A careful scrutiny of complex objects 
of beauty shows that they, too, are easily attended to, though 
for another reason. The sense-object which is beautiful is 



Impersonal Emotion 193 

always a unique totality of characters, and both by the unity 
in which its details are united, and by the individuality of 
the combination, it is readily attended to. Every beautiful 
object is an illustration of the principle. Thus, curves are 
beautiful, and broken lines are ugly, in part because the 
curve is a whole, readily apprehended, whereas the broken 
line is a series of unessentially connected sections, with diffi- 
culty grasped as a whole ; and rhythm is beautiful because 
it binds into a whole, expectantly apprehended, the succes- 
sive movements, tones, or words of the dance, the melody, or 
the poem. The more complex the parts which are bound 
together, if only the complexity does not overstrain the atten- 
tion, the more organic the unity and the greater the beauty. 
By this principle we may explain what we call the de- 
velopment of our aesthetic consciousness. To a child, the 
couplet or the quatrain may well give more aesthetic pleasure 
than the sonnet, precisely because he can attend to the one 
and not to the other, as harmonious whole. He will prefer 
the short lines of the '^Cavalier Tune" — 

"Kentish Sir Byng stood for his king, 
Letting the crop-headed Parliament swing," 

to the more complicated metre of ''Herve Riel" — 

" On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! " 

Consciousness of the beautiful is, in the third place, 
direct and immediate, not reflective and associative; that 
is, the beautiful is always an object of direct and immedi- 
ate perception. An object may gain interest, significance, 
and value, but never beauty, by its suggestiveness. This 
is an important point, for sentimental moralists and even 
sober psychologists are constantly contrasting what is called 



194 ^ First Book in Psychology 

the beauty of expression, or significance, with immediately 
apprehended beauty. We are told, for instance, that the 
bent figure of a laborer is 'beautiful' because the man has 
worked bravely and faithfully, or that an ill-proportioned, 
wooden building is beautiful because it is a happy home. 
These are misleading metaphors : nothing can be beautiful 
which is not a direct and immediate object of sense-percep- 
tion; the figure is ugly, though the man's life is an inspira- 
tion; the building is hideous, though it enshrines happiness. 
Nothing is gained, indeed, by confusing every value with the 
distinct and well-defined value of the beautiful. What we 
mean by aesthetic consciousness is a direct experience ; and, 
as Miinsterberg teaches, only the unconnected, the ' isolated 
fact in its singleness,' can be beautiful — can bring about, in 
other words, the complete absorption of self in sense-object. 
A final feature of the aesthetic consciousness has already 
been suggested; it is a characteristic emphasized by Kant, 
by Schiller, by Schopenhauer, and, indeed, by all the great 
teachers — the entire disinterestedness of aesthetic pleasure. 
This means that the contrast between one self and other selves 
is all but vanished in the aesthetic experience, and that one 
becomes, as Schopenhauer says, 'a world-eye,' a perceiving 
and enjoying, not a grasping or a holding self. To enjoy a 
bronze or a painting because it is mine, or to delight in a view 
because it stretches out before my window, is thus an utterly 
unaesthetic experience, for the sense of beauty admits no joy 
in possession, and beauty does not belong to any individual. 
This disinterestedness of the aesthetic consciousness explains 
the mistaken opposition, sometimes made, of the 'beautiful,' 
to the 'useful' It is quite incorrect to hold that a useful 
object may not also be beautiful; and, indeed, men like 



Impersonal Emotion 195 

Morris and Ruskin have fairly converted even this Philistine 
age to the possibility of welding together use and beauty, in 
the practical objects of every-day life, in buildings, furnishings, 
and utensils. But it is true that one's consciousness of the 
utility is not identical with one's sense of the beauty, and that 
one seldom, at one and the same moment, appreciates the 
convenience of a coffee-pot handle and the beauty of its 
curve, or realizes the brilliancy of a color and the likeli- 
hood that it will not fade. While, therefore, objectively 
regarded, the union of beauty and utility is the end of all 
the arts and crafts, subjectively considered, the conscious- 
ness of utility must not be identified with the sense of beauty, 
precisely because the aesthetic sense demands the subordi- 
nation of narrow, personal ends. 

The common distinction of aesthetic from unaesthetic sense- 
experiences may be accounted for in a similar fashion. The 
organic sensations, such as satisfied hunger and thirst, bodily 
warmth, active exercise, — all these are pleasant but they are 
not ' aesthetic ' pleasures, because they are, of necessity, sharply 
individualized and referred to my particular self. Tastes, 
also, and smells are experiences which serve narrow and 
definite personal ends of bodily sustenance. They are sel- 
dom, therefore, artistically treated as objects of aesthetic 
pleasure. For the beautiful object is cut off as utterly from 
my narrow needs and interests as from the associative con- 
nection with other facts ; in the words of Schopenhauer, it is 
' neither pressed nor forced to our needs nor battled against 
and conquered by other external things.' Thus the world 
of beauty narrows to include one object of beauty. 

Two other forms of altruistic or adoptive impersonal 
emotion must be mentioned. The first of these is the 



196 ' A First Book in Psychology 

enjoyment of logical unity, often discussed under the name 
'intellectual sentiment.' Every student knows the feeling, 
and counts among the most real of his emotional experi- 
ences the satisfied contemplation of an achieved unity in 
scientific classification or in philosophical system. The 
feeling should be sharply distinguished from another char- 
acteristic pleasure of the student, the excitement of the in- 
tellectual chase, the enjoyment of activity in even unrewarded 
search. The pleasure in logical unity follows upon this 
tormenting pleasure of the chase, as achievement follows 
upon endeavor. It clearly resembles aesthetic emotion not 
only in its absorption and disinterestedness, but also in 
the characteristic harmony, or unity, of the object of delight. 
For this reason, the enjoyment of logical unity is sometimes 
reckoned as itself an aesthetic experience. The writer of this 
book, however, approves the usage which restricts the appli- 
cation of the term ' beautiful ' to sense-objects. This limita- 
tion, of course, forbids the treatment of enjoyment of logical 
unity as a form of aesthetic pleasure. 

Brief reference must be made, finally, to a third form of im- 
personal and altruistic emotion — the ' sense of humor. ' * For 
our present purpose, it is most important to dwell upon the 
self-absorbing, externalizing nature of the experience. Just 
as we are said to forget ourselves in our apprehension of the 
beautiful, so also we forget ourselves, that is, our narrow 
individuality, our special interests and purposes, in our ap- 
preciation of the humor of a situation. What Professor 
S ant ay ana has well said of the aesthetic consciousness we may 
equally apply to the saving sense of humor : there is hardly 
a "situation so terrible that it may not be relieved by the 
momentary pause of the mind to contemplate it aesthetically " 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 197 

or humorously. It is because we have such need of pauses, 
in the arduous business of living, that we value the sense of 
humor so highly, and for this same reason we find the most 
estimable people, if devoid of humor, so inexpressibly tire- 
some. 

There are as many theories of the comic as of the beau- 
tiful, but virtually all of them agree in defining the sense 
of humor as enjoyment of an unessential incongruity. Nar- 
rowly scrutinized, every 'funny' scene, every witty remark, 
every humorous situation, reveals itself as an incongruity. 
The incongruity of humor must, however, be, an unessen- 
tial discordance, else the mood of the observer changes from 
happiness to unhappiness, and the comic becomes the pathetic. 

III. The Bodily Conditions and Correlates 
OF Emotion 

a. The Physiological Conditions 

This section, which concerns itself with less purely psy- 
chological considerations, will first discuss the physical and 
physiological conditions of emotion, — more precisely of 
those elements of consciousness to which a structural analysis 
reduces emotion. These elements include, as has appeared, 
at least the following: (i) affective elements of pleasantness 
and unpleasantness, and (2) organic sensational elements. 

(i) The affections are distinguished from sensational ele- 
ments in that they have no definite physical stimulus, no dis- 
tinct form of physical energy which corresponds with them, 
in the way in which vibrations of the ether normally condition 
sensations of color, and atmospheric waves condition sensa- 
tions of sound. This independence of physical stimula- 
tion is admitted by everybody, so far as the mode of physical 



igS A First Book in Psychology 

stimulus is concerned. Ether or atmosphere vibrations, 
and mechanical or electrical, liquid or gaseous, stimulus may 
bring about now a pleasant, now an unpleasant, now a per- 
fectly indifferent, experience. It is true that certain sensa- 
tional qualities — pain and probably also certain smells 
and tastes — are always unpleasant, and there may be certain 
sensational qualities which are always pleasant; but, none 
the less, every class of sensational qualities (except that of 
pain) includes both agreeable and disagreeable experiences; 
and many sensational qualities are sometimes pleasant, at 
other times unpleasant, and again indifferent.* It follows, as 
has been said, that the affective tone caimot vary with the 
mode of physical stimulus. 

Some psychologists have, however, supposed that a definite 
relation may be found between the degree — and possibly 
also the duration — of physical stimulation and the affective 
experience.^ This relation is usually formulated as follows : 
any stimulus of great intensity, and many stimuli of prolonged 
duration, occasion unpleasantness, whereas stimuli of medium 
intensity bring about pleasantness, and very faint stimuli 
excite indifferent experiences. But this is not an accurate 
statement of the facts. Both moderate stimuli, and even 
stimuli which at one time are strong enough to be unpleasant, 
may become indifferent — for example, workers in a factory 
may grow indifferent to the buzz of the wheels which is in- 
tolerable to visitors; and low degrees of stimulation, for in- 
stance, the faint pressure of fingers on the skin, are sometimes 
pleasant. The pleasantness and unpleasantness of all save 
sensational experiences of great intensity seem to depend, so 
far as they can be explained at all, not on the physical inten- 

* For experiment, cf. Seashore, Chapter XV., pp. 191 ff.; Titchener, § 34. 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 199 

sity of their stimuli, but on two other factors — the unexpected- 
ness and the intermittence of the stimuli. The constantly 
repeated stimulus, unless very strong, is indifferent, whereas 
the unexpected stimulus occasions pleasure. 

We have thus been unsuccessful in the effort to discover 
definite physical stimuli of the affections. We have, how- 
ever, reached certain positive, though as yet uncoordinated, 
results. Very intense, and intermittent stimuli occasion un- 
pleasantness ; unexpected stimuli of moderate intensity ex- 
cite pleasure; and habitual stimuli are indifferent. A fur- 
ther consideration of these results of our inquiry leads us to 
a study of the physiological conditions of affective elements 
of consciousness. These, to be sure, can be only hypotheti- 
cally assigned, because they have eluded discovery by direct 
experimental or by pathological methods. We must proceed 
cautiously in the absence of direct experiment, but we are safe 
in asserting, first of all, that there are no peripheral or surface 
end-organs of pleasantness or unpleasantness, since such end- 
organs could only be excited by special physical stimuli, of 
which, as we have seen, there are none. It is also probable 
that pleasantness and unpleasantness are not brought about 
by the excitation of the sensory cells in the brain, that is, of 
the cells directly connected by afferent nerves with the surface 
end-organs. For variation in the locality of these function- 
ing cells, in the degree of their excitation, and in the number 
excited, have been seen to correspond, in all probability, with 
sensational qualities, intensities, and extensities. 

Bearing in mind that any theory of physiological conditions 
is uncertain, until it has been verified by experimental ob- 
servation, we may still profitably guess at the physiological 
basis for the affections.^ In the writer's opinion, one plaus- 



200 A First Book in Psychology 

ible account of this physiological condition is the following: 
pleasantness and unpleasantness are occasioned by the ex- 
citation of fresh or of fatigued cells in the frontal lobes of the 
brain, and the frontal lobe is excited by way of neurones 
from the Rolandic area of the brain. When the neurones 
(or cells.) of the frontal lobes, because of their well-nourished 
and unfatigued condition, react more than adequately to the 
excitation which is conveyed to them from the Rolandic area, 
an experience of pleasantness occurs; when, on the other 
hand, the cells of the frontal lobe, because they are ill 
nourished and exhausted, react inadequately to the excita- 
tion from the Rolandic area, then the affection is of un- 
pleasantness; when, finally, the activity of frontal-lobe cells 
corresponds exactly to that of the excitation, the given ex- 
perience is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but indifferent.* 
This theory is assumed, as working hypothesis, in this chapter. 
From this suggested explanation of the affective factors in 
emotion we must turn to an attempted account of (2) the 
sensational constituents.'^ These are of two main classes: 
first, those which are brought about by internal bodily changes, 
especially by changes of heart-beat and of arterial pressure; 
second, those which are due to the movements of head, limbs, 
and trunk, including respiratory movements. | Many psy- 
chologists have tried to discover, experimentally, exact dif- 
ferences between bodily conditions of pleasantness and 
unpleasantness respectively. J The results of these inves- 

* The general reader is advised to omit pp. 200^-204,^ certainly at the 
first reading of the chapter. 

t On this subject, the student is advised to read James, " Psychology, 
Briefer Course," Chapter XXIV., pp. 373-386; or ''The Principles of 
Psychology," II., Chapter XXV., pp. 449-471. 

X For experiments, cf. Seashore, Chapter XV., pp. 201 ff . ; and Titchener, 
§§ 35-37- 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 201 

tigations are not unambiguous, for the difficulties of experi- 
menting on emotional conditions are very great. It is, in 
the first place, hard to bring about any genuine emotion 
under laboratory conditions — to rouse keen joy or pro- 
nounced grief while one is encased in apparatus destined to 
measure the bodily processes; and, in the second place, 
emotional states are so complex that it is hard to isolate 
pleasantness and unpleasantness for experimental testing. 
The following distinctions may, however, be accepted as 
more or less probable : ^ — 

(i) Pleasantness is characterized by a slow and strong 
pulse, by dilating arteries, and by bodily warmth. Un- 
pleasantness is characterized by a fast, weak pulse and by 
bodily chill. This is the result best established by experi- 
ment and by introspection. 

(2) Pleasantness is perhaps characterized by relatively 
quick and weak breathing; unpleasantness by slow and 
deep breathing. This conclusion is not so well substantiated. 

It should be added that all these bodily conditions may con- 
ceivably occur without our being conscious of them ; but that 
the consciousness due to the internal changes (the conscious- 
ness of heart -beat, of warmth, of cold, and the like) are prob- 
ably always a part, even if an unemphasized part, of emotion; 
whereas the consciousness of some, at least, of the external 
changes, of altered breathing or of actual movements of the 
body, is only a frequent and not an invariable, constituent of 
emotion. My amusement, for example, often includes my 
consciousness of my smile, yet I may be amused without 
smiling. 

It is thus evident that certain bodily changes, internal and 
external — changes in dilation of blood-vessels and in pulse, 



202 A First Book in Psychology 

in respiration, and in the movements of face and limbs — 
condition and accompany the emotions. But we have not 
completed our study of the bodily conditions of emotion until 
v^e try to discover the brain or nerve changes which condition 
these changes in pulse, respiration, and the rest. A prob- 
able account of these brain changes is the following. First, 
{a) sensory brain-centres are excited through perception or 
imagination of a given object ; next {h) the excitation of these 
sensory neurones spreads to the brain-centre of bodily sensa- 
tions and movements, that is, to the region forward and back 
of the fissure of Rolando, and there excites motor cells.* This 
excitation of the motor neurones of the Rolandic region is 
then carried (i) downward to lower brain-centres in the 
medulla oblongata, which control the unstriped muscular 
coatings of inner organs of the body, such as blood-vessels, 
heart, and intestines. In this way the internal circulatory 
changes are brought about : the heart -beat and pulses are 
checked or increased, and the arteries (not the big ones near 
the heart, but the smaller, thin-walled vessels in outlying 
parts of the body) are dilated or constricted, thus occasioning 
either a flush and rising temperature or pallor and chilliness. 
The downward excitation is carried (2) to the striped or 
skeletal muscles attached to the bones of the body, and thus 
the * external ' changes in breathing and muscular contraction 
are occasioned. Both sorts of bodily change, the ' internal ' 
and the 'external,' excite end-organs of pressure, and the in- 
ternal changes excite also end-organs of warmth and cold ; 
and these excitations of the end-organs of pressure and of 
warmth or cold are carried upward by ingoing nerves to the 
sensory cells of the bodily-sensation-and-movement-centre 

* Cf. Appendix, Section III., § 7. 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 203 

(the Rolandic area). The excitation of these sensory cells 
is the immediate condition of all the organic sensations 
(whether due to internal changes or to external movements) 
which are present in emotional experience. And from the 
Rolandic area, excitations carried to the frontal lobe bring 
about that adequate (or inadequate) excitation of neurones 
which conditions the pleasantness (or unpleasantness) of 
emotion. 

We may illustrate this complicated description by the 
hypothetical account of the bodily conditions of some special 
emotion — for example, of the delight with which I hail the 
unexpected arrival of a friend. The conditions of this joy 
are, presumably : — 

First, (a) the spread of excitations from the sense-centres, 
excited by the sight of my friend, to motor neurones in the 
Rolandic area; and {h) the excitation of downward motor 
neurones. 

Second, stronger heart-beat and pulse, and dilation of the 
smaller arteries which results in bodily warmth and in redden- 
ing of the skin. 

Third, probably, slower and deeper breathing, as well as 
other changes (due to the contraction of skeletal muscles) such 
as smiles and hand-clapping. 

Fourth, (a) excitation of end-organs of pressure, occa- 
sioned by the internal bodily movements which always occur, 
and by the external muscular contractions when they occur; 
and {h) the upward spread of these excitations to sense-cells 
of the Rolandic area. The excitation of one group of these 
sense-cells occasions the sensations of internal warmth and 
pressure, which are always a part of the emotion of joy ; and 
the excitation of another group of these cells, when it occurs. 



204 A First Book in Psychology 

conditions the sensational consciousness of external move- 
ment which often forms a part of 'joy.' 

Fifth, the spread of excitations from these Rolandic sense- 
neurones, to the frontal lobes, followed by the adequate ex- 
citation of frontal-lobe cells. This vigorous excitation may 
be explained, at least in part, in the following manner : the 
stronger heart-beat, characteristic of joy, pumps blood from 
the heart, and all parts of the body, including the brain, are 
therefore relatively well nourished. The result of this 
adequate excitation of well-nourished frontal-lobe neurones 
is the affective element of the emotion — its pleasantness or 
unpleasantness. A diagram may make all this clearer (see 
page 205) : — 

h. The Instinctive Bodily Reactions to Environment 
in Emotion 

Important to a study of emotion is a consideration of those 
bodily reactions which accompany and, in part, condition 
emotional states. They are noticeable, in the first place, as 
interruptions of preceding bodily reactions of every sort. On 
the one hand, they are interruptions of those regular and 
habitual reactions which normally accompany perception; 
and, on the other hand, they interrupt the deliberate and pur- 
posive bodily movements of thought and of will. A second 
character of emotional reactions allies them with sensational 
and with perceptual reactions : they are swift and immediate, 
following directly on stimulation. Emotional reactions, in 
the third place, like all merely sensational and like some per- 
ceptual reactions, are instinctive, untaught. The deliberative 
reaction to a new situation — the movements necessary, for 
example, in setting up a new piece of apparatus — and even 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 205 









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2o6 A First Book in Psychology 

the less complex perceptual reactions — the movements, 
for example, with which I react to the ringing of my 
telephone bell — have all been acquired, that is, learned 
through imitation of somebody else or through my indi- 
vidual experience of success and failure; but my caress, 
my shudder, my laughter, — all these are instinctive bodily 
responses. 

Emotional reactions are classified in two ways. They are 
distinguished, in the first place, as either chaotic excess-reac- 
tions or as coordinated hereditary reactions. The distinction 
may best be brought out by illustration. Suppose that I am 
seated at my desk and dictating a letter to my stenogra- 
pher, in part reading from manuscript and in part composing. 
My consciousness is quite unemotional. My bodily reactions 
are compounded of (i) the habitual bodily reflexes which 
accompany and follow my perception of the letter which I 
read, and of (2) the more deliberate and hesitating reflexes 
which accompany my adoption of the phrases which I add. 
At this moment I am frightened, let us say, by the sight of a 
beast escaped from a travelling menagerie. What now is the 
character of the bodily response to this environment ? It is of 
course, an instinctive reaction, and it involves an instanta- 
neous ' checking ' of the behavior of the previous moment : I 
at once drop the letter I have been holding and I stop speak- 
ing. And it is either a chaotic and unordered reaction — a 
helpless shriek, and an impotent running to and fro — or it is 
a coordinated action of the hereditary type ; for example, I 
run away from the beast or I attack him with some bludgeon. 
Professor Angell has admirably explained emotional reac- 
tions of these two types. The stimulus of the emotion — 
whether external object or image — checks the reaction, 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Emotion 207 

habitual or volitional, of the preceding movement, so that 
(in Angell's words) * " the motor channels of acquired coor- 
dinated . . . movements are somewhat obstructed." These 
motor impulses "overflow . . . into channels leading partly 
to the involuntary muscles," and thus resulting in aimless, 
futile movements, "and partly, through hereditary influences, 
to the voluntary system," resulting in useful and coordinated, 
though unplanned, reactions. 

Within this group of coordinated and hereditary reactions a 
second distinction may, finally, be made. The reactions which 
accompany the happy emotions are movements of advance 
— such movements as the baby's outstretching of his arms 
to his mother; the reactions which accompany the unhappy 
emotions are movements of withdrawal, such as the shrinking 
of the child from the unfamiliar figure. All these instinc- 
tive hereditary reactions may be studied from the standpoint 
of their biological significance. Darwin and others have 
shown that the bodily changes in emotion are modified sur- 
vivals of instinctive reactions of animals and of primitive 
men to their environment.^ The trembling of fear, for ex- 
ample, is an instinctive movement which takes the place of 
actual flight from the enemy ; the snarl of hate is a modified 
survival of the way in which an animal uncovers his teeth, 
in order to tear and devour his prey, and the quickened 
breath of anger is a survival of the labored breath of an 
animal or of a savage, in a life-and-death contest with an 
enemy, f 

* "Psychology," Chapter XVIII., pp. 321-322. The student is advised 
to read Chapters XVIII. and XIX. in full. 

t The student should consult Darwin, "Expression of the Emotions," 
examining the illustrations. For condensed statement of Darwin's teaching, 
cf. James, the end of each of the chapters cited on p. 200. 



2o8 A First Book in Psychology 

IV. The Significance of Emotion 

The two fundamental characters of emotion press to the 
foreground of our attention as we turn again to the practical 
question: What is the bearing of our psychology on our 
behavior? Precisely because of these basal characters, 
emotion is an important factor in behavior. Emotion is, in 
the first place, an individualizing experience : it fosters ex- 
plicit self-realization and direct personal relations and it 
makes other people real to me. And it is, in the second place, 
a receptive experience, and makes me sensitive to my envi- 
ronment and responsive to every aspect of it. A secondary 
character of emotion is also significant from the point of 
view of conduct. By its very vividness and coerciveness 
emotion tends to interrupt the habitual course of perception 
and of thought — somewhat as the emotional bodily reac- 
tion breaks in on the habitual response or on the deliberate 
chain of reactions. And this emotional interruption has, of 
course, its uses and its corresponding defects. If my habitual 
activities are never interrupted by emotion, I shall react in 
undeviating fashion to my environment for all the world 
like a well-wound wax figure ; and if my reasonings are never 
broken in upon by feeling, I am little more than a calculating 
machine. On the other hand, if my thinking is never secure 
from the inroad of my emotions, I am like a heap of fire- 
works, ready to be set off by any chance spark. 

The practical conclusions from this estimate of the sig- 
nificance of emotion are very obvious and yet are wprth a 
restatement. All of them presuppose, of course, the possi- 
bility of stimulating, checking, modifying — in a word, the 
possibility of controlling the emotions. On this point one 
preliminary observation must be made. The emotions are 



The Significance of Emotion 209 

only indirectly controllable. Nobody can wave a wand and 
say to himself, "Now I'll be happy," or "Now is the time 
to feel mournful." This is a fact which people are always 
overlooking. "I've brought you here to be happy, and you 
shall be happy," says the mother to the little girl on a coun- 
try-week excursion; but a shriek compounded of discontent 
and indignation is the well-directed answer of the child. 
Yet, though one may not by a feat of will exorcise the evil 
passion or the gnawing melancholy there are devices for 
removing the conditions of emotion. I may mechanically 
turn my attention to an absorbing and distracting book or 
occupation; I may open my mind to some tranquillizing 
influence; or I may arbitrarily assume the bodily postures 
which accompany pleasure. I shall be most successful in 
these indirect efforts to expel emotion if, by their means, I 
can rouse a strong emotion opposed to the one which I am 
trying to banish. Love that is perfect casts out fear because 
I cannot be at the same time vividly and happily conscious 
of another self in equal companionship with me and yet 
unhappily conscious of the same self as my superior and as 
cause of my unhappiness. And in like fashion love may 
exorcise demons of unhallowed desire and of sullen melan- 
choly. Shakespeare, great analyst of the human passions, 
vividly emphasizes this truth : — 

"When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state 
And trouble deep heaven with my bootless cries 
And look upon myself and curse my fate 

H: H: :^ H: H: H: 

Haply I think on thee and then my state 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate." 



2IO A First Book in Psychology 

From this preliminary study of the ways of controlling 
emotion we must turn back to the more specific problem: 
What are the helpful and what the harmful emotions ? At 
the outset, we must recognize that emotion is an important, 
and indeed an inevitable, constituent of the psychic life. 
We are not to try, therefore, to suppress all emotion — and 
not to suppose that we can be successful if we try. To be 
universally bored or blase is for most people a pose and an 
affectation; and in so far as the effort is sincere it is a mere 
sign of incompleteness, an admission that one is only half 
a human being. 

But though it is alike futile and mistaken to attempt to 
banish emotion from experience, it is none the less certain 
that emotions may be harmful. Emotions are positively 
harmful if they interfere with essential habits; they are 
harmful also if they do not stimulate to active consciousness 
— that is, to volitions or to beliefs. The first of these asser- 
tions is so obvious that it hardly needs to be enlarged upon. 
I simply cannot go on living unless I can protect my use- 
ful habits from the incursions of my emotions ; and I cannot 
carry on any train of reasoning while I am strongly swayed 
by my passions or by my feelings. It is even more necessary 
to emphasize, in the second place, the truth that emotion is 
not an end in itself; that emotion, though in itself receptive 
or passive, is significant in so far as it is incentive to activity; 
and that emotion turned upon itself, and issuing in no action 
not only fails of its particular result but inhibits the future 
tendency to activity. Indulgence in emotions never leading 
to action may become, in truth, the starting-point of actual 
disease, nervous and mental; and one of the soundest meth- 
ods of scientific psychotherapy is the discovery of a patient's 



The Significance of Emotion 211 

'suppressed emotions,' and the effort to guide them into safe 
outlets of action.* To hug one's emotions to oneself, to 
seek or cherish them after Rousseau's or Werther's fashion, 
for the mer€ delight or excitement of having them is, there- 
fore, to run the risk of crippling one's power to will, to choose, 
and to play an active role in life. Constant theatre-going 
and novel-reading are injurious precisely because they stimu- 
late the emotions without providing any natural outlet of 
activity. The reality of this danger and the practical method 
of guarding against it have been well set forth by Professor 
James. "Every time," he says, "a fine glow of feeling 
evaporates without bearing practical fruit is worse than a 
chance lost ; it works so as positively to hinder future reso- 
lutions. . . . One becomes fiUed with emotions which ha- 
bitually pass without prompting to any deed, and so the 
inertly sentimental condition is kept up. The remedy would 
be, never to suffer oneself to have an emotion, . . . without 
expressing it afterward in some active way."t 

This conclusion about the relation of emotion to activity 
furnishes, as will at once appear, the most important 
criterion of the value of particular emotions. Emotions are 
of very manifold sorts and kinds, and are consequently of 
diverse and unequal value. In fostering and in checking 
emotion we must, therefore, recognize the different values of 
the different emotions. For the complete estimation of emo- 
tions, as adapted to varying situations, there is here no op- 
portunity, but the main principles of such an estimate may 
be stated. In brief: I should seek, in the control and 
development of my emotions, as complete an emotional 

* Cf. Appendix, Section XVI. 

■j" "The Principles of Psychology," I., Chapter IV., pp. 125-126. 



212 A First Book in Psychology 

experience as is consistent with the function of emotion to 
stimulate helpful activity. On this basis, three practically 
significant conclusions may be formulated. First, in and 
for themselves, the pleasurable emotions are helpful and 
the unpleasant emotions are harmful. This statement 
stands in direct opposition to the teaching of asceticism that 
pleasure is in itself an evil, but follows immediately from the 
principle that emotion is useful in so far as it stimulates 
activity. For pleasure more often and more intensely than 
its opposite, pain,* leads to activity. The desire to avoid 
pain is, to be sure, a stimulus alike to conscious and to 
bodily activity. But greater decisions are made, truer 
loyalty is shown, more seemingly impossible results are 
achieved through hope than through fear, through love 
than through hate, through confidence than through anxiety. 
Evidently, therefore, other things being equal, one should 
seek to rouse and to perpetuate pleasant emotions ; and, con- 
versely, it is absurd to urge any one to choose a profession or 
an occupation or a course of study because it is unpleasant 
and therefore salutary. It will appear immediately that 
many pleasant emotions are harmful; but this is always by 
virtue of some character other than their pleasantness. 

Second, altruistic emotions, because most of them are 
less instinctive, are more in need of cultivation than egoistic 
emotions. In general, only people whose instincts have 
been warped by unnatural training need to be exhorted to 
seek happiness for themselves. Most of us, surely, would be 
larger and more effective selves if the scope of our sympa- 

* The word 'pain' is here used, in its popular sense, to designate the oppo- 
site -of pleasure; not in its technically correct meaning, to designate a sen- 
sational consciousness. 



The Significance of Emotion 213 

thies were widened, and if the happiness and unhappiness 
which we share with other selves were intensified. In order 
to widen my own personality and in order to transform 
merely passive emotion into active loyalty, I should therefore 
cultivate my altruistic emotions. 

Third, neither the personal nor the impersonal emotions 
should be cherished to the exclusion of the others. This 
' rule ' is primarily in the interest of completeness of experi- 
ence. There are people who are never stirred by the beauty 
of harmony, of form, or of color, who never draw breaths of 
satisfaction at the completeness of a demonstration or at the 
nicety of a logical distinction. Such people may be vividly 
emotional — they may be moved to their depths by personal 
contact, they may love and hate and envy, and may quiver 
with sympathy. And yet they miss part of what life might 
give them; and for lack of the occasional detachment from 
the personal, their emotional life is one-sided and thwarted. 

The opposite defect is, however, more serious. By miss- 
ing the impersonal joys of life one defrauds mainly one- 
self ; but by lacking the personal emotions one impoverishes 
other selves as well. The characteristic temptation of certain 
temperaments is to regard the personal as if impersonal, to 
look at all human happenings from the standpoint of aes- 
thetic and intellectual emotion. Thus regarded, a squalid 
tenement house is merely picturesque, and a defalcation is an 
interesting social situation. The dangers of this attitude are 
apparent. The impersonal emotions lead to contemplation 
and are perilously out of place in situations which demand 
action. 

It will be observed that the cultivation of my altruistic 
and my personal emotions leads often to my abandoning the 



514 ^ First Book in Psychology 

happy for the unhappy experience. But this abandonment 
should never be from choice of the unhappy-as-such. In 
spite of, not because of, the unhappiness which it brings me, 
I should exchange my delighted contemplation of the thatched 
cottage for a sympathetic consciousness of the discomfort of 
its damp and smoky interior. The estimation of the com- 
parative value of pleasure is one of the concerns of ethics. 
Every student of ethics and every keen observer of life admits 
that the desire for pleasure must be strictly controlled, not 
because pleasure is evil in itself but because it is so instinc- 
tively sought that it tends to displace more important objects 
of choice. 

A brief reference must be made, in conclusion, to the 
unhealthy fashion of stimulating unpleasant emotion in the 
alleged interest of completeness of experience. The popu- 
larity of sensational novels and of problem-plays is the con- 
temporary indication of this tendency. But nobody needs to 
seek unpleasantness merely in order to enrich his experi- 
ence, for life is bound to furnish enough that is unpleasant. 
The only safe rule is never to create or to seek the unpleasant 
save as it leads to action individually necessary or socially 
helpful. Such a principle hes at the basis of a sound esti- 
mate in the New York Nation of certain widely read novels. 
"Their revelations of the hideous conditions of life," the 
Nation says, ''are not calculated to make any person of 
good-will seek out that suffering and relieve it. . . . In a 
time when sensationalism and overemphasis of all kinds bid 
fair to be regarded as the chief literary virtues, these sordid 
infernos go a step farther and deal consciously in the revolt- 
ing. ... To view a brutal action may be salutary if it 
prompts one to knock the brute down; to penetrate the 



The Significance of Emotion 215 

lowest human depths, bearing aid, is well; to classify a new 
gangrene is well if it evokes a remedy ; but to pry about a 
pathological laboratory that one may experience the last 
qualm of disgust, and then to exploit such disgust for literary 
purposes, is to create a public nuisance." 



CHAPTER XII 

WILL 

I. The Nature of Will 

a. Will as Personal Attitude 

Sharply contrasted with the receptive, passive relations 
of my conscious self to its object, or environment, are 
two supremely assertive, active, experiences: will, or 
volition, and faith. In perceiving, I cannot help seeing and 
hearing and smelling; and though I can, to a degree, control 
my imaginings, yet I am a victim, often, of my imagination, 
for, in normal as well as in abnormal states, insignificant 
word-series may repeat themselves with wearisome itera- 
tions, grewsome scenes may thrust themselves upon me, and 
bitter experiences may unroll themselves before my unwill- 
ing eyes. In emotion, finally, I am influenced by people 
and things, 'prostrate beneath them,' as Goethe somewhere 
says.* Opposed to all these receptive attitudes are will and 
faith: the dominant assertive relations of the self to objects 
of any sort. Will is a consciousness of my active connection 
with other selves or with things, an egoistic, imperious rela- 
tion, a domineering mood, a sort of bullying attitude. In 
will I am actively, assertively, related to my environment, I 
am conscious of my superiority and my independence of it, 

* Cf. pp. II ff., 121 ff., and 171 ff. Thought is not in itself an assertive 
experience, but is often a result of volition, 

216 



Will as Personal Attitude 217 

I conceive of it as existing mainly for my own use or gratifica- 
tion. 

Every leader or captain among men is thus an embodi- 
ment of will : his domain may be great or small, spiritual or 
physical, civil or literary; he may be king or cabinetmaker, 
archbishop or machinist, inventor or novelist; whatever his 
position, if he consciously imposes himself on others, if he 
moulds to his ideals, on the one hand, their civic functions, 
their forms of worship or their literary standards, or, on the 
other hand, their furniture and their means of transportation, 
he stands to them in the relation of imperious, domineering, 
willing self. 

The rebel and the stoic are even more striking embodi- 
ments of will than the mere leaders of men. For stoicism 
and rebellion are instances of imperiousness, in the face of 
great or even overwhelming natural odds, — assertions of 
one's independence in the very moment of opposition or de- 
feat. The stoic, in spite of his conviction that apparent 
success is with his opponent, is unflinching in the assertion 
of his own domination. ''In the fell clutch of circum- 
stance," he declares the more firmly — 

" I am the master of my fate, 
I am the captain of my soul." 

Prometheus defying Zeus who tortures him is the classic type 
of the rebel : — 

** Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm fixed mind, 
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do. 
Foul tyrant both of Gods and humankind, 
One only being shalt thou not subdue. 

Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent 
O'er all things but thyself . . . 
And my own will. ..." 



2i8 A First Book in Psychology 

It is this attitude of mind, not any specific direction of 
consciousness toward a definite result, which constitutes what 
we call will, in the most intimate meaning of that word : a 
realization of one's independence of people and of things, a 
sense, more or less explicit, of the subordination of one's en- 
vironment to one's own use, bodily or spiritual, — such a pos- 
session of oneself as is, in its completest development, a sub- 
jugation of every outlying circumstance, of every opposing 
self, and even of every insubordinate desire and thought. 
For only then is my self-assertion complete when I can say — 

" Yet am I king over myself and rule 
The torturing and conflicting throngs within." 

Will is thus an egoistically assertive experience. It is also 
(like emotion) a profoundly and a doubly individualizing ex- 
perience. Never am I more poignantly conscious of myself 
as single individual, as I-and-no-other, than when I assert 
myself in domination over my environment or in opposition 
to it. And with equal emphasis I individualize the object of 
my will : I assert my superiority over this individual, I com- 
mand this soldier, I dominate this obstacle. 

There are two fundamentally important forms of will — 
will directed toward a future object and will without temporal 
reference. Will of the first type has as object a specific future 
event. Will without temporal object is the consciousness of 
my domination of opposing person or of outlying circumstance, 
and need not include any contemplation of future change. 
It is a more fundamental experience than will directed toward 
future object, for this latter form of will is the expression, 
ordinarily, of the underlying non-temporal volitional attitude. 
One often, indeed, issues commands solely as expression of an 
overbearing disposition, after the fashion of the mother who 



Will as Personal Attitude 219 

sends a messenger to the garden "to see what Willie is doing 
and to make him stop it." 

From the objects of thought of which one is aware as re- 
lated primarily to each other,* objects of will, like objects 
of emotion, are sharply distinguished in that they are 
immediately realized as related to the self. In truth, the 
assertivenessof will implies the subordinate relation of objects, 
personal and impersonal, to me, the willing self. These 
future objects of will are called ends and must be further 
discussed. 

The end of will is, in the first place, real ; that is to say, 
what I will, I always will to be real. Whether it be the will 
to make my moorings, or to fit together the pieces of a picture 
puzzle, or to resist a temptation to drive a sharp bargain, the 
end of my will is always regarded as a real occurrence, in the 
sense that I will it to be real. This is, indeed, the distinction 
between the object of my will and the object of my wish. 
The wish no less than the volition is directed toward a future 
object, but whereas I may wish for a fairy godmother or for a 
canal-boat in Mars, the ends of my will never seem to me to be 
unattainable. Another obvious character of the end is pre- 
cisely its temporal relation, its futurity. A moment is that 
which-is-linked-in-two-directions, with its past and with its 
future. From both past and present the future moment is, 
however, distinguished by a lack of the irrevocableness which 
attaches to past and to present. Past and present are beyond 
change, whereas the future appears to be undetermined. 

The object of will is realized, finally, as in a way dependent 
on the willing. It is, to be sure, an open question whether 
there is justification for this conviction that the end is in any 

* Cf. Chapter IX., p. 134. 



220 A First Book in Psychology 

sense dependent on the volition; but unquestionably the 
object of will is so regarded and is thus, as will appear, dis- 
tinguished from the object of belief.* 

h. Will as Anticipatory Consciousness 
' The Feeling of Realness ' 

Roughly parallel with the study of the objects of will is the 
structural analysis — an analysis of will conceived without 
necessary or explicit reference to the subject-self. We are 
entering now upon a famous battle-ground of psychology. 
Some psychologists have held that there is a specific elemental 
consciousness characteristic of will ; others teach that will is 
analyzable into a complex of elements mainly sensational.^ f 
In the opinion of the writer of this book, neither view is 
justified. To begin with the doctrine of the sensationalists : 
they teach that will consists simply and entirely in a mass of 
sensation, including always the sensational consciousness of 
bodily movement. Suppose, for example, that in rowing I 
will to feather my oar. According to the sensationalists, my will 
consists in (i) the sensational consciousness of the slight and 
mainly unnoticed movements which, instinctively, I actually 
make during volition, and (2) the sensational consciousness 
which constitutes the image preceding the deliberate voluntary 
movements of my rowing. This antecedent image may be 
either of the movement to be executed in feathering the oar, 
or of the way in which the oar will look when feathered. 
Even in inner volition, the sensationalists teach, — in the 
effort, for example, to solve the problem or to remember the 

* Cf. Chapter XIII., p. 236. 

t These Arabic numerals, throughout this chapter, refer to the numbered 
divisions (§§) of the Appendix, Section XII. 



Will as Anticipatory Consciousness 221 

forgotten date, — one is apt to wrinkle one's forehead, to 
clench one's fingers, and to hold one's breath ; and volition 
is simply the sensational consciousness of these movements. 
Now it doubtless is true that the willing consciousness includes 
these sensations of movement ; but there is a conclusive objec- 
tion to the view that volition consists wholly in the conscious- 
ness of such movements: experience furnishes each of us 
with countless examples of movement preceded by imagina- 
tion of movement, which we never think of calling voluntary. 
I imagine an operatic air, for instance, and am surprised to 
find myself humming it, or I listen to an orchestra, and my 
waving fan moves unconsciously to the rhythm of the sym- 
phony. These are instances of movement preceded by the 
consciousness-of -movement, yet nobody calls the antecedent 
images — of operatic air or of musical rhythm — volitions ; 
and one names the movements impulsive, not voluntary.* 
But this admitted difference between impulse and volition 
would be impossible if volition were an image constituted by 
purely sensational consciousness. 

The discovery that volition contains unsensational elements 
has led to the assumption of a special volitional, or 'conative' 
element. But the analysis which follows, of volition, will 
show no trace of any such irreducible constituent. Roughly 
stated, volition differs (structurally analyzed) from the mere 
antecedent imagination in that it includes a certain realized 
' anticipatoriness.' This does not mean that volition is a con- 
sciousness later realized as having been anticipatory : rather 
the anticipatoriness is part of the volition. The term ' antici- 
patoriness ' is used to indicate a complex experience including 
at least three factors: (i) the consciousness of realness; 

* Cf . Chapter V., p. 90. 



222 A First Book in Psychology 

(2) the consciousness of the future; and (3) an experience of 
linkage or connectedness — the consciousness of the depend- 
ence of the end upon the volition. Obviously these three 
sorts of unsensational experience correspond exactly with the 
relations, just discussed, of the willed object. Thus, the 
volition to feather my oar includes not only sensational con- 
sciousness, perceptual and imagined, of movement, but dis- 
tinctive unsensational experiences, describable only as the 
consciousness of realness, of futurity, and of the dependence 
of future end on present volition. These experiences, as must 
constantly be reiterated, are actual psychical ingredients, as 
it were, of volition — as unmistakable as the sensations of 
movement, of color, or of sound. Since they are elemental, 
or nearly elemental, they cannot be described any more than 
sensational elements can be described ; and, unlike sensational 
elements, they cannot be explained and classified by reference 
to definite physical stimuli and to differentiated end-organ 
excitation. But, like sensational elements, they can be pointed 
out, or indicated, as indeed we have indicated them, by refer- 
ence to their objects. For example, just as one may indicate 
to a foreigner the meaning of the word 'red' by saying that 
red is the visual consciousness which one has in looking at 
strawberries and at tomatoes, so one may indicate the meaning 
of the 'feeling of realness' if one say that it distinguishes the 
volition from the wish to ride a bicycle ; one may designate the 
consciousness of futurity as part of the essential distinction 
between my consciousness of this August day and my con- 
sciousness of a similar day next summer; and, finally, one 
may refer to the consciousness of the dependence of end on 
volition as that which marks off my will that my chauffeur 
shall observe speed regulations from the belief that he will 
observe them. 



The Forms of Will 223 

Of these three structural factors of the 'feeling of 
anticipatoriness/ two — the consciousness of the dependence 
of end on volition, and the consciousness of the future — are 
relational experiences.* The third — the feeling of real- 
ness — is rather to be grouped with elemental attention 
and with the affections, the feelings of pleasantness and 
of unpleasantness, as an attributive element. Like these 
(and unlike the sensational elements) it is not always present 
in our consciousness — in other words, we may be conscious 
of objects without regarding them as either real or unreal: 
and, like the attributive but unlike the relational elements, 
the feeling of realness is always fused with another element 
or with other elements of any order, t 

II. The Forms of Will 

In the more detailed study of the different forms of will 
we shall be guided by the following scheme : — 

I. Will to Act (Outer Volition). 
a. Simple 

(i) With resident end. 

(2) With remote end. 
6. Choice 

(i) Without efJort.l 

(2) With effort.J 

II. Will to Think (Inner Volition). 
a. Simple. 
h. Choice 

(i) Without effort. 

(2) With effort. 

* Cf. Chapter VIII., pp. 127 ff.; and Appendix, Section III., §34; and 
Section VIII., § 2. 

t Cf. Chapter VI., p. 94; Chapter XI., p. 172; Appendix, Section III., 

§ 34. 

% With resident or with remote end. 



224 ^ First Book in Psychology 

This outline, it will be observed, concerns itself only with 
volition directed to the future, making no attempt to clas- 
sify the delicately varying non-temporal relations of self to 
other selves — to distinguish, for example, imperiousness 
from aggression, or mere opposition from inventiveness.* 
The outline is based on the distinction of the will to act, or 
outer volition, from the will to think, or inner volition, — on 
the distinction, for example, of the volition to sign a check, 
or to fire a gun or to make an electric contact, from the volition 
to attend to the elusive analogy, to remember the forgotten 
name, or to think out the unsolved problem. 

a. Outer and Inner Volition (Will) 

Outer volition, or the will to act, may have as object either 
a bodily movement or a result of movement. In the expres- 
sion of James, it may have either a 'resident' or a 'remote' 
end. It is thus a consciousness of straining muscle or of 
moving hand, or else a consciousness of the effect of these 
movements, of the note to be sounded, the button to be 
fastened, or the outline to be drawn. This consciousness of 
the remote end may be visual, auditory, or, in fact, of any 
sense-type whatever. Such a consciousness of the remote 
end is followed by movements; but the movements are 
involuntary, though the consciousness is volitional, because 
the image which precedes them is an imagination of result, 
not of movement. A man wills, for example, to reach the 
railway station, and involuntarily he breaks into a run 
toward it; he has a visual consciousness of the platform, 
which means that a centre in his occipital lobe is excited; 
this excitation spreads along neurones which lead to theRo- 

* Cf. Chapter XIV., pp. 252 £f. 



Outer and Inner Volition 225 

landic centres of leg-muscle activity, and by the excitation of 
these centres his movements of running are excited. He is 
conscious of the running, but only after it has begun, and he 
is even unconscious of some of the leg-contractions involved 
in the running. In other words, he actively relates himself 
to the railroad station, not to his leg-muscles, and the move- 
ments follow as reflexes, without being specifically willed.* 

Two corollaries about outer volition are of such im- 
portance that they must receive special emphasis. The 
volition, in the first place, though called outer volition, is 
named from the anticipated end, not from any perceivable 
result ; that is, it occurs quite independently of any external 
result. The fact that I am prevented, by bodily inca- 
pacity or by external circumstance, from carrying out my 
purpose, does not alter the volitional nature of the conscious- 
ness itself. The volition is, in other words, not an external 
event, but rather the anticipation of an outer event (of an act 
or of its result), including the feeling of anticipation, the 
consciousness of the necessary connection of this definite 
experience with a future real event. The physiological 
phenomenon which follows on volition certainly is the exci- 
tation of outgoing motor neurones. But this nervous im- 
pulse may exhaust itself before the contraction of any muscles 
occurs; or the contraction may indeed take place, but 
insufficiently ; or, finally, my successful action may miss the 
needed support of other actions. I may address the ball 
with infinite pains, but top it ingloriously ; or I may throw 
the tiller hard over, but fail to bring my boat into the wind. 
In every case, whatever the reason of external failure, outer 

* The student is advised to read James, "Psychology, Briefer Course," 
Chapter XXVI., pp. 415-422. 
Q 



226 A First Book in Psychology 

will, or volition, remains what it is by virtue of its inherent 
nature. 

The second of these corollaries of the doctrine of outer 
volition is the following: movements conditioned, or 
regularly preceded, by consciousness are not of necessity 
voluntary movements. Every conscious experience, sen- 
sational, affective, or relational, as well as volitional, stimu- 
lates motor reaction; but such stimulation is volition only 
when it includes anticipation in the sense already explained. 
As mere involuntary stimulus to action, every percept, emo- 
tion, or relational experience may be termed an impulse.* ^ 
(A practically useful application may be made, by way of 
digression, from the observation that actions follow normally 
from impulses as well as from volitions — in other words, 
that actions and bodily conditions and mental states are 
likely to follow on the vivid consciousness of them. For, if 
this is true, it is evident that one's volitions should be positive 
rather than negative. To say to oneself, ''I will not run 
my bicycle into that tree" is to cherish an image that is 
only too likely to prove an impulse to action long before the 
tardier volition can inhibit it. So, to resolve that "I will not 
lie awake to-night," or "I will not fill my mind with these 
corrupting thoughts," is to occupy oneself with the very 
experience which should be avoided. The most effective 
volition is always therefore affirmative : one wills to keep to 
the road, not to avoid the tree ; to breathe deeply and sleepily, 
not to stop lying awake ; to " think on . . things . . . 
honest, . . . just . . . and pure, " not to avoid evil thoughts). 

These illustrations have suggested the contrast between 
inner and outer volition. Inner volition may, however, be 

* Cf. Chapter V., p. 90. 



The Forms of Will 227 

passed without detailed discussion. Like outer volition, it 
is anticipation of an end which is real. The end is, how- 
ever, in this case, another consciousness, not a physical action 
or situation, but a psychic experience. The volition to re- 
member the forgotten name or date, to guess the riddle, and 
to understand the working of the intricate mechanism, are 
examples of what is meant by inner volitions. Compared 
with outer volitions, it is evident that they do not so closely 
resemble their ends (or objects). The volitional image of 
an act may be, in detail, like the act as performed; but 
the object of inner volition is itself consciousness, and to 
have the anticipatory consciousness of a consciousness, pre- 
cisely similar yet not identical, is impossible. Inner volition 
may, therefore, be defined as anticipatory consciousness, in- 
cluding the idea of linkage with an end, and normally fol- 
lowed by partially similar experience, not by actidn. 

h. Simple Volition and Choice 

Within each of the classes, outer and inner will, there is 
another fundamental distinction: the distinction between 
simple will and choice, that is, will after deliberation. De- 
liberation is a conflict of will with will, an alternation in the 
tendencies or directions of self-assertiveness. It is a sort of 
clashing and warring between my varying attitudes toward 
different selves and things; a successive subordination to 
myself now of one, now of another, person ; the will to possess 
now this object, now that, to suppress now this inclination 
and again this other. I choose, let us say, to sail to South- 
west Harbor instead of walking to Turtle Lake, but my choice 
is preceded by what is called deliberation, a sort of mental 
see-saw of forest and ocean consciousness: now I hear 



228 A First Book in Psychology 

in imagination the sound of the wind in the tree- tops, but 
its music is drowned by that of the water on the keel of the 
boat; again, I imagine the vivid brown of the brook bed 
and the patches of sunlight sifting through the interlaced 
boughs of the birch trees, but the vision is blotted out by 
that of the mountains rising sheer out of Somes' s Sound. 

Imaginings of the accompaniments and of the results of 
rival objects of choice may play leading roles in my delibera- 
tion. If I am deciding between a course of violin lessons 
and a stateroom on the Mauretania, not merely the images 
of fiddle and of steamer alternate, but the imagination of 
myself as playing ''Schubert's Serenade" will be confronted 
by the imagination, let us say, of Winchester Cathedral Close. 
If I am wavering between a set of golf clubs and the new 
Clarendon Press translations of Aristotle, the imagination 
of a round on the Myopia links may be crowded out by a 
vision of myself as reading, before my study fire, a good 
translation of the " Metaphysics." This whole experience 
of alternating imaginations is attended by feelings of per- 
plexity and unrest, the characteristic discomfort of ' making 
up one's mind.' 

In considering the different sorts of choice, we shall do 
well to follow the lead of James, distinguishing 'choices 
without effort' from 'choices with effort.'* The difference 
is simply this : in the choice without effort, I fully abandon 
one alternative, whereas, in the choice with effort, I choose 
one alternative in full view of the other. The choice with- 
out effort, however prolonged and restless the deliberation 

* The student is advised to read James, "Psychology, Briefer Course," 
Chapter XXVI., pp. 428-442; or "The Principles of Psychology," II., 
pp. 528-538. 



Simple Volition and Choice 229 

which has preceded, is an easy choice, because at the exact 
time of making it no other act or result is contemplated. 

The choice without effort usually conforms with our habits 
of thought, inclination, and action. I am deliberating, let 
us suppose, whether to have the Bokhara or the Persian 
carpet. The Persian is more subdued in color, but the 
Bokhara is silkier in texture. The Persian is larger, but the 
Bokhara follows more nearly the shape of my room. So far 
I am undecided, but now I see that the blue of the Persian 
rug does not tone with the blue of my hangings, and at once, 
quite without effort, I decide upon the Bokhara. Or I am 
trying to decide whether or not to buy this volume of 
Swinburne. The paper is poor and the print is fine, but the 
price is low and the poems are complete. "I really must 
have it," I say to myself. " But the print is impossible," 
I reflect. My indecision, however prolonged, is ended by 
the discovery that the book is an unauthorized American 
reprint. Now I long since decided to buy only authorized 
editions of English books, and my actual decision, to reject 
the book, is made without effort, that is, without even a 
thought of the advantage of the book. 

When confronted, therefore, with what seems a new 
decision, one wisely tends to consider its relation to former 
choices, to fundamental inclinations, and to habitual actions. 
The result of such a ' classification,' as James calls it, is usu- 
ally a decision without effort. An action, clearly realized as 
essential to the fulfilment of a choice already made, will 
promptly be chosen. The advantage of what the older 
psychologists called 'governing choices' is precisely this, 
that they make 'subordinate choices' easy. 

The choice with effort is not, of necessity, preceded 



230 A First Book in Psychology 

by longer or more painful deliberation (that is, vacillating 
consciousness) than the effortless choice. The essential dif- 
ference is simply this, that the choice is made with full 
consciousness of the neglected alternative. "Both alter- 
natives," James says, ''are steadily held in view, and in the 
very act of murdering the vanished possibihty, the chooser 
realizes how much he is making himself lose." George 
Eliot has suggested this experience in the story of Romola's 
meeting with Savonarola, as she sought to escape from Tito 
and from Florence. ^' She foresaw that she should obey 
Savonarola and go hack. His arresting voice had brought a 
new condition to her life, which made it seem impossible to 
her that she could go on her way as if she had not heard it ; 
yet she shrank as one who sees the path she must take, hut 
sees, too, that the hot lava lies there y * 

The most strenuous deliberations of all these types are 
those of the moral life: the fluctuations between good and 
evil, right and wrong, desire and obedience. Lifelike de- 
scriptions of deliberation are, for this reason, almost always 
accounts of moral choices. Of this fact the dramatists and 
the novelists give abundant illustration; and. even on the 
pages of the morahsts one may find vivid suggestions of the 
warring of personal tendencies in deliberation. "I see an- 
other law in my members," St. Paul exclaims, ''warring 
against the law of my mind." "Clearly there is," says 
Aristotle, "besides Reason, some other natural principle 
which fights with and strains against it." 

* Italics mine. 



The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Will 231 

III. The Bodily Conditions and Correlates of Will 

A statement concerning the neural conditions and the 
motor consequents and accompaniments of volition will con- 
clude this chapter. So far as the neural conditions are con- 
cerned, there is little to say : the brain changes, whatever they 
are, which condition the feeling of realness and the relational 
consciousness of time, along with the ever present excita- 
tions of sense-centres, must be the physiological conditions 
of will. More significant is the distinction, already made, 
of voluntary movements, as delayed and hesitating, from the 
impulsive movements following on perception and emotion. 
The delay is especially marked in deliberate acts; yet every 
voluntary act (that is, every act preceded by an anticipatory 
image of itself or even of its end) must be performed less 
promptly than an action excited mechanically and instan- 
taneously without the intervening brain excitation corre- 
sponding to the anticipatory imagination. 

The relation between these volitional reactions and reflex, 
instinctive reactions should be noted carefully. Instinctive 
actions are untaught, and all reflex acts (whether instincts or 
lapsed habits) are immediate, whereas our volitional and our 
thought reactions are always learned through imitation or 
through individual experience, and are always delayed. Re- 
garded, however, merely as muscular contractions, without 
reference to their immediacy, to their orgin, or to the con- 
sciousness preceding and accompanying them, voluntary 
movements may be similar, as well as dissimilar, to purely 
instinctive reactions in a given situation. Indeed, the simple 
movements of which a complicated voluntary movement is 
composed — the bending, grasping, pulling, for example — 



232 A First Book in Psychology 

cannot differ from these same movements performed as 
mere reflexes. And one may also definitely will to perform 
an originally instinctive act, in a word, one may supplement 
instinct by will. It follows that voluntary, like instinctive, 
emotional reactions of the egoistic type may be classified as 
reactions of withdrawal or of advance (here, of aggression). 
It has been pointed out already, and the fact will later be 
reemphasized, that voluntary reactions of all sorts tend to 
be replaced by immediate and habitual reflexes. In truth, 
the development of the life of consciousness always tends to 
suppress the direct motor volitions. Almost all bodily move- 
ments are better executed when our aim is directed toward 
the result to which they lead, that is to say, when the end 
of volition is an 'outer object,' not an imaged bodily move- 
ment. 



CHAPTER XIII 

FAITH AND BELIEF 

I. The Nature and Forms of Faith and Belief 

Faith, as distinct from will, is an adopting or acknowledg- 
ing, not an imperious, demanding phase of consciousness; it 
lays emphasis not on myself but on the 'other self.' In the 
attitude of will, I subordinate others to myself; in that of 
faith or loyalty, I submit myself to others. In the mood of 
will, I am 'captain of my soul'; in my faith, I acknowledge 
another leader. Yet faith, like will, is an assertive, not a 
receptive, attitude of one self to other selves. It is no emo- 
tional sinking beneath the force of opponent or environment, 
but a spontaneous, self-initiated experience*, the identification 
of oneself with another's cause, the throwing oneself into 
another's life, or the espousal of another's interests. In the 
words of Edmund Gosse : " No one who is acquainted with 
the human heart will mistake this attitude for weakness of 
purpose;" it is not "poverty of will" it is "abnegation." 
More accurately, such a relation is a supreme instance of 
faith ; and men of faith have always, like the heroes of Hebrew 
history, "subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained 
promises, stopped the mouths of lions," and this, through 
the active identification of themselves with great selves, great 
ideals, and great theories. Primarily, this attitude of ac- 
knowledgment and adoption is a relation to other selves: in 

other words, the object of faith is a self or selves. By belief, 

232 



234 ^ First Book in Psychology 

on the other hand, is meant the assertive attitude of a self 
to an impersonal object. A man has faith in his father, his 
physician, his fellow student, his God ; he believes the 
necessity of tariff reform, the doctrine that acquired 
characters are inherited, the dogma of the inspiration of 
the Bible. 

Evidently faith and belief, like will, are assertive and doubly 
individualizing experiences, with personal or impersonal, 
external or non-external, 'real' objects. Structurally ana- 
lyzed, faith and belief — still like will — include the ele- 
mental consciousness of reality.* So much for the likeness : 
faith and belief differ from will mainly in that each is, as has 
appeared, an altruistic, not an egoistic, an adoptive, not an 
imperious, attitude toward other selves or ideals or facts. A 
second difference is the following: the object of belief is 
always an object congruent with its environment. Nothing 
seems real to me which does not also seem harmonious. It 
follows that the objects of belief are of the most varied sort, 
but that they all agree in being regarded as congruent. When 
objects of our perception are called 'real,' by contrast with 
objects of our imagination, they are known as harmonious 
with each other: the meeting-house which I see accords 
perfectly with its surroundings, the mosque which I imagine 
is incongruent with every architectural feature of this New 
England town; the electric bells which I hear are congruent 
with the sounds of the city streets, the strains of the 
" Pastoral Symphony " which I imagine are unrelated with 
my entire surroundings. 

From this it follows that a given object of consciousness 
may seem from one point of view real and from another un- 

* Cf. Chapter XII., p. 222. 



Faith and Belief 235 

real, according as it is compared with one set of facts or with 
another. James has brilHantly illustrated this truth under 
the heading, "The Many Worlds of Reality," and has sug- 
gested seven such worlds,* including the worlds of sense, of 
science, of abstract truths, of fiction, and of individual 
opinion. The motion of the sun, which is real in the sense- 
world, is thus unreal in the world of science; Goethe's 
Lotte, though unreal in the sense-world, is so real in the 
world of poetry that we sharply contrast with her Thack- 
eray's parodied Charlotte, whom we unhesitatingly pro- 
nounce unreal. And these distinctions mean merely that 
the motion of the sun is a phenomenon, congruent with the 
facts of our every-day observation, — sunrises, moons, and 
twilights, — but contradicted by the Copernican conception 
of our earth and the other planets of our system, in revolu- 
tion about the sun; and that the romantic Lotte is a figure 
congruent with the life and environment of Goethe's Wer- 
ther, whereas Thackeray's prosaic Charlotte is utterly un- 
related to the Werther world of Goethe's creation. Faith 
and belief are thus distinguished both by the feeling of real- 
ness and by the feeling of congruence; and the objects of 
faith and belief are harmonious with their environment. 

Besides this fundamental difference between faith and be- 
lief, on the one hand, and all forms of will, two distinctions 
must be named between the ends, or objects, of will as directed 
toward the future, and the objects of belief. These objects 
of belief, in the first place, are not necessarily future. One 
may believe a past or a present as well as a futuie event, as 
when, for example, one believes that Kleisthenes reformed 

* The student is advised to read James, "The Principles of Psychology," 
II., Chapter XXI., pp. 291 ff. 



236 A First Book in Psychology 

the constitution of Athens, or that some one is at the front 
door. In the second place, the object of behef is not regarded 
as in any sense dependent on the behef. My belief that my 
new fur-lined cloak will be sent home to me next Thursday 
differs from my volition that it shall be sent home, because the 
belief lacks, what the volition has, a sense that this antecedent 
consciousness has a certain bearing on the result which will 
follow. In terms, therefore, of structural analysis, belief 
differs from will not only because the consciousness of the 
future is unessential to belief, but because belief includes a 
relational consciousness of harmony or congruence, and lacks 
the relational consciousness of the dependence of future on 
present. 

Brief mention only need be made of the physiological con- 
ditions and of the bodily reactions characteristic of faith and 
belief. Of the brain conditions little need be added to what 
was said of the neural conditions of will.* The bodily 
movements which accompany faith or belief resemble those 
which follow on will in being hesitating, or deliberative, but 
differ from them in a marked way. For, whereas will-re- 
actions are movements of opposition, of aggression, and of 
withdrawal, the reactions characteristic of trust and of belief 
are movements exclusively of approach: they are imitative 
and cooperating reactions. 

Certain corollaries of the doctrine of faith or belief, as 
characterized by the feeling of realness, are so important that 
they demand consideration. It should be noted, in the first 
place, that side by side with the experience of realness grows 

* Cf. Chapter XII., p. 231. 



Faith and Belief 237 

up what may be called a feeling of not-realness. This is 
evidently a composite of the consciousness of opposition with 
the consciousness of reality. Neither the consciousness of 
realness nor that of unrealness can be a first consciousness 
in any life, because both are learned through experience of 
such contrasts as that between perception and imagination, 
fulfilment and hope, execution, and volition. In illustration 
of the fact that the feeling of unrealness is not a primitive 
experience, James supposes* 'a new-born mind' for whom 
experience has begun, ' in the form of a visual impression of 
a hallucinatory candle.' "What possible sense," he asks, 
"for that mind would a suspicion have that the candle was not 
real? . . . When we, the onlooking psychologists, say that 
it is unreal, we mean something quite definite, viz. that there 
is a world known to us which is real, and to which we per- 
ceive that the candle does not belong. ... By hypothesis, 
however, the mind which sees the candle can spin no such 
considerations about it, for of other facts, actual or possible, 
it has no inkling whatever." From this correct doctrine 
that the naive mind has no inkling of an unreality, James and 
Baldwin and other psychologists draw, however, the errone- 
ous conclusion that the undisputed, uncontradicted objects 
of the primitive consciousness are felt as real. The "new- 
born mind," James says, "cannot help believing the candle 
real," because "the primitive impulse is to affirm the reality 
of all that is conceived." But the proof that no object is 
primitively regarded as unreal falls far short of a proof that 
it is thought of as real ; and, on the contrary, our observation 
of ordinary experience shows us many instances in which we 
are conscious neither of realness nor of unrealness. When I 

* op. ciL, Vol, II.. p. 287. 



238 A First Book in Psychology 

am really absorbed in the adventures, for example, of Monte 
Cristo or in a Giovanni Bellini "Holy Family," I am not say- 
ing to myself, "this event is not historical," or "this is a por- 
trait figure." In a word, I am conscious neither of realness 
nor of unrealness, but exclusively of stirring event and of 
glowing color. 

The second of the corollaries from the doctrine of this 
section is the following: Though faith and behef certainly 
include the consciousness of reality, such consciousness may 
be so vague and unemphasized as to be truly an unimportant 
constituent of the total belief or faith. This fact is of high 
practical importance, for the doctrine of faith is most often 
obscured by confusing it with the bare consciousness of reality. 
A certain consciousness of reality is, it is true, essential to 
the active attitude toward selves and toward things, that is, 
essential both to faith and to will. But the mere awareness 
of reality is a very subordinate part of the experience of faith 
or belief. Faith is always an active, personal attitude tow- 
ard another self ; belief is always an active, personal attitude 
toward things, events, or truths; and both faith and belief 
involve, but are not exhausted by, a consciousness of the real- 
ness of selves or of things. 

The relation between faith and the mere awareness of 
reality is most often discussed on an ethical basis. We re- 
ceive, from great teachers of righteousness, fervid exhorta- 
tions to have faith and to believe. But still other teachers 
warn us, as solemnly, that it is alike irrational and immoral 
to proclaim an obligation to hold opinions. These moralists 
insist that it is meaningless to assert the ethical superiority 
of one opinion to another, and they teach that the alleged duty, 
to hold this or that view of reality, is in opposition to the only 



Faith and Belief 239 

intellectual obligation, unswerving honesty in investigation. 
This revolt against the "duty to believe" would be justified, 
if it did not presuppose a wrong interpretation of the exhorta- 
tions to faith. The truth is, that the great moral teachers 
always regard faith as personal acknowledgment of great 
selves and of great personal ideals. Such acknowledgment 
may involve, it is true, a certain consciousness of reality, and 
is never possible toward self or toward cause which is held as 
definitely unreal. On the other hand, such a personal ac- 
knowledgment does not presuppose any reasoned conclusion 
or any philosophic conviction about reality, and may even exist 
along with an unemphasized or a fluctuating consciousness of 
the reality of the self whom one follows or of the cause 
which one espouses. The duty to have faith is always, there- 
fore, the obligation to identify oneself with the persons or the 
causes which seem the highest ; and the exhortation to faith 
is always, on the lips of the great teachers, an incentive to 
loyalty. Thus, the New Testament commands to believe 
emphasize, always, the need or the duty of an affirming, con- 
senting, personal attitude toward a divine self, and do not re- 
quire that one hold an opinion about him ; and the great 
creeds, also, are expressions of a personal relation. For, 
from this point of view, a conception of the duty of faith 
may clearly be held, since personal relations, not convictions 
of reality, are the objects of obligation, and since faith is the 
assertive, adoptive attitude of one self toward another. 

Faith and belief are thus described as assertive, doubly 
individualizing adoptive attitudes to objects of any sort, and as 
distinguished by the elemental consciousness of realness and 
by that of congruence. An attempt to classify will show that, 



240 A First Book in Psychology 

like volition, faith and belief may be inner or outer, that is, 
may consist in the acknowledgment of ideal or of deed, and 
may be deliberative or simple. Deliberative struggles of 
faith with faith, of belief with belief, are universal experi- 
ences. Antigone's faithful love for her brother in opposi- 
tion to her obedience to the state, the loyalty of the Soeur 
Simplice to Jean Valjean battling with her devotion to the 
ideal of truth, Robert Lee's allegiance to his state in 
conflict with his love for the Union, — are classic examples 
of an experience to which nobody is a stranger. Midway 
between this form of deliberation and the purely voluntary 
conflict of will with will — the alternating impulses to 
subordinate to oneself now one, now another, person 
or external thing — are the crucial struggles between will 
and faith. The crisis in the life of Neoptolemos was such 
a conflict between will, the impulse to crush Philoctetes de- 
spoiled of his weapons, and faith, the loyal acknowledgment of 
the rights of Philoctetes and the active adoption of his cause. 
Romola's deliberation, also, is essentially the vibration be- 
tween these two fundamental tendencies toward self-assertion 
and self-effacement, toward the satisfaction of her own crav- 
ing for a new life and the acknowledgment of a higher author- 
ity than her own desire. Both these are instances of an alter- 
nation, not between one willing tendency and another, but a 
fluctuation between will and faith, the egoistic and altruistic 
tendencies, the imperious and the acknowledging modes, the 
decision to lose one's Hfe for another's sake or to save it. 

II. The Significance of Faith and of Will 

Faith and will stand in such close relation that the 
practical outcome of the study of the two experiences is 



The Significance of Faith and of Will 241 

wisely formulated in a single section. It is certain that only 
in will and in faith — in my self-assertion and in my devo- 
tion — do I come fully to myself; and that only in will and 
in loyalty, only as assertive, active self — as leader or as fol- 
lower — do I influence my environment. Obviously, therefore, 
these are practically significant experiences; and indeed all 
other forms of consciousness — memory, reasoning, and, 
notably, emotion — are estimated always not for themselves 
merely, but as material or incentive for self-assertion and for 
loyalty. No quickness of discernment, no power of thought, 
no depth of emotion, can ever take the place of what may 
be named energy of spirit. He who lacks it may well echo 
the cry, " Ce n'est pas de conseils, c'est de force et de fecon- 
dite spirituelle que j'ai besoin." 

The evident outcome of this conviction of the supreme value 
of activity is to stimulate me to cherish and to foster my will 
and my loyalty. This statement must at once be modified 
by two important observations. To begin with: assertive- 
ness, in either of its forms, is out of place in some situations. 
There are times when I have no responsibility for action, 
when I would better contemplate or observe or enjoy with 
utter receptivity, abandoning myself to stimulations from my 
environment. In the second place, even in my active rela- 
tions, I should aim to reduce the number of my specific 
volitions and acknowledgments. Will and faith are, essen- 
tially, the active attitude, imperious or adoptive, of the self as 
a whole to other self or selves, and to inclusive interests or 
to complete situations. Therefore will and faith are not most 
effectively directed to single acts or thoughts; but these 
result, with greater precision and with distinct economy of 
consciousness, not from the specific volition, but rather from the 



242 A First Book in Psychology 

underlying will and from the wide-reaching loyalty or belief. 
It is true that I am not always capable of these inclusive and 
fundamental volitions and loyalties. While I am training 
myself to unaccustomed habits of mind or of body, and when- 
ever will and faith are made difficult by opposing inclinations 
or desires, then I must make frequent special volitions and 
must espouse near and not far-away ideals. I must learn to 
dance, for example, by practising steps, that is, I must will 
the special movement of the foot and bend of the body. And 
the most effective way to make myself study an uninteresting 
subject may well be to will the mechanical operations of ris- 
ing, getting and opening my book, following with eyes and 
with voice the lines and paragraphs. But these detailed and 
repeated volitions are characteristic of the will-in-training, 
not of the disciplined and educated will. When I have 
learned to dance, it is sufficient for me to direct my will to the 
accomplishment of a certain figure, and when I have habitu- 
ated myself to study, the thought of the subject to be mastered 
will be followed mechanically by the movements involved in 
reading. In a word, reactions once willed tend to become 
involuntary, and, indeed, bodily reactions tend to become un- 
conscious ; and not only involuntary and unconscious bodily 
reactions, but immediate and unwilled mental reactions are 
likely to be more precise and exact than those which result 
from specific volition. Only when we no longer have to will 
the particular turn of the wrist or position of the hand are 
these movements mechanically accurate; only when we no 
longer need to bend to our will the words of poem or of 
formula can we put it to adequate use. In technical terms, 
the objects of our will and of our faith should be, as far as 
possible, inclusive and 'remote,' and our specific acts and 



The Significance of Faith and of Will 243 

experiences should be, as far as may be, the unwilled means 
to these remoter ends and the unwilled aids to loyalty. 

It thus appears that self-development involves a gradual 
reduction in the number of our volitions and beliefs. In like 
fashion, deliberation should give place to simple volitions 
and beliefs. In the beginning, almost every situation which 
involves either will or faith calls for deliberation. There is a 
possible alternative to every action, and every decision may 
be debated. But unquestionably the ideal is to attain voli- 
tions so comprehensive and beliefs so fundamental, so far- 
reaching, that the particular acts and conclusions of life 
follow from them without anticipation or as results of simple 
volition and faith. The Rubicon - once crossed, Julius 
Caesar has no place for further deliberation; the road to 
Rome once taken, Victor Emmanuel need not pause till the 
breach is made in the wall by the Porta Pia; his allegiance 
to the party once fully given, William Gladstone has no need 
to debate this issue as every new bill is introduced into Parlia- 
ment. In other words, when once the governing purpose is 
formulated, when the large allegiance is given, lesser deci- 
sions become effortless, former deliberations become need- 
less ; even simple volitions, for the most part, give place to 
unpurposed conclusions and acts. This is the reason why 
the lives of great men are always, relatively speaking, simple 
lives. So fundamental and abiding are the great choices 
which they make, so encompassing and deeply rooted is 
their loyalty, that they perform naturally, even mechanically, 
the trivial acts and conclusions on which lesser men deliberate. 

We have so far spoken of will and of faith as coordinate 
forms of assertiveness or self -activity, setting aside the im- 
portant difference between them. But it must already have 



244 ^ First Book in Psychology 

appeared that both — the egoistic, dominating assertiveness 
of will and the altruistic, adoptive assertion of faith or belief 
— are essential aspects of the complete self. Most of us are 
prone to overestimate the significance of will. Like the little 
boys in their play-regiments, we all want to be officers, and 
we extol leadership at the expense of loyalty. But self- 
assertion, though it deepens, cannot widen, my self-realiza- 
tion; imperiousness and domination may be relatively ex- 
ternal attitudes toward my environment. Only if I adopt 
and espouse and take into myself the aims and ideals of 
other selves do I make of myself what I may be. Even 
more obviously, I inflict irreparable wrong on my fellow if 
I imperil his individuality by subduing his will to mine, by 
imposing my personality upon him; and I fail of the con- 
tribution to the social good of which I am capable, if I do 
not follow where others lead and espouse causes which I 
have not initiated. It is a commonplace of every-day ethics 
that only those who have learned to obey know how to lead, 
and the study of the lives of the really great leaders makes 
this clear. Only the second-rate commanders are sticklers 
for recognition. "I will hold his horse for him if he will win 
me a battle," Lincoln exclaims of one of his generals. 

It is equally one-sided, though perhaps not equally com- 
mon, to follow where one ought to lead, to imitate where one 
ought to initiate, to obey where one should take command. 
The truth is that both will and faith, both self-assertion and 
loyal acknowledgment, are essential factors of the complete 
life. Each is a manifestation of the deepest individuality, 
for the great leader cherishes instead of repressing the in- 
dividuality of his followers; and the whole-souled disciple 
expresses himself in his devotion. 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS 

I. The Forms of the Social Consciousness 

Most of the forms of consciousness of which individual 
psychology treats are, or may be, social: in other words^ 
they include, or may include, a consciousness of relation to 
other selves. Personal emotion, loyalty, the attitude of com- 
mand — even reflective perception and thought — involve my 
experienced relation to other selves. In a narrower sense, the 
term ' social consciousness ' is applied to the awareness of my 
relation not to an individual but to a group of selves. There 
are two main types of social group : the mob, or crowd, and 
the society. The first is a group of selves, of whom each imi- 
tates the external acts and the unreflective consciousness of 
the others. The mob, however, in so far as it concerns the 
social psychologist, is consciously imitative. It is probably 
true, to be sure, that mob-actions may be unconsciously per- 
formed. The most serious-minded may be carried out of 
bounds at an exciting football game, and may wake up to 
find that, quite unconsciously, he has himself joined lustily 
in ear-splitting yells during several mad minutes. But this 
unconsciously active mob is the concern of the sociologist, 
and only incidentally of the psychologist. The social psychol- 
ogist's interest is chiefly with the group of people who realize 
their imitativeness, who are conscious, however vaguely, of 

245 



246 A First Book in Psychology 

shared experiences and actions, who know that they are join- 
ing the shout of a thousand voices, or that they are rushing on 
in a great, moving mass of people. Such vague social con- 
sciousness the people of the mob almost always possess. 

We have next to remark the strict limitations of the mob- 
consciousness. The individuals who compose it share each 
other's perceptual and emotional experience, but their actions 
are too precipitate to admit time for thought, and they are 
too deeply swayed by emotion to be capable of loyalty or 
of deliberate will. The mob-consciousness is not only fun- 
damentally imitative, but utterly lacking in deliberation and 
reflection, and it is therefore capricious and fantastic. For 
this reason, the acts of a mob are absolutely unpredictable, 
since they spring from the emotions, notably the most tem- 
porary of our subjective attitudes. The fickleness of the 
crowd is, therefore, its traditional attribute; the mob which 
has cried aloud for the republic rends the air v/ith its Vive 
le Roij and the Dantons and Robespierres, who have been 
leaders of the crowd, become its victims. 

What is sometimes called the insanity of a mob is, in 
reality, therefore, a psychological, not a pathological, phe- 
nomenon. Every emotion and passion gains strength as it 
is shared, and is characterized by reactions of increasing 
vigor. The accelerated force of primitive emotions, shared 
by scores and hundreds of people, is for a time irresistible, 
the more so because both emotions and the acts which go 
with them are unchecked by reasoning or by deliberation. 
No one supposes that the crew of the Bourgogne deliber- 
ately trampled women down in an effort to reach the boats. 
No one imagines that the Akron mob would have set fire 
to the public buildings, when they knew that the man 



The Mob-consciousness 247 

whom they sought had escaped, had they reasoned the matter 
out. Seamen and citizens alike were a prey to elemental 
passions uncontrolled by deliberation. 

The activities of a mob may, none the less, be construc- 
tive as well as destructive, ideal as well as material. Gustave 
le Bon, a brilliant French writer, lays great stress on the 
capacity of a mob to perform capriciously generous deeds as 
well as cruel ones; and he instances the crusades as ex- 
ample of a great altruistic mob-movement. "A crowd," Le 
Bon says, "may be guilty of every kind of crime, but it is 
also capable of loftier acts than those of which the isolated 
individual is capable." It is, however, perfectly unequal to 
any logical conclusions, . any reasoned acts, any purposed, 
planned, or deliberately chosen performance. Whether it 
drive the tumbril or rescue the Holy Sepulchre, its action is 
purely emotional and capricious, and it takes its cue unre- 
flectively from the leader of the moment, for "sl man . . . 
isolated . . . may be a cultivated individual ; in a crowd he 
is a barbarian." 

Many modern writers, Le Bon among them, believe that 
the crowd or mob is the only social group. They thus com- 
pletely identify the crowd with 'society,' teaching that the 
mob-consciousness is the only type of social consciousness. 
From this doctrine we have good reason to dissent most 
emphatically, for we clearly find in human experience what 
has been named the reflective social consciousness. We 
may compare, for illustration, the reflective national con- 
sciousness with mob-patriotism. Everybody is familiar with 
the mob-activities of so-called patriotism: the shouts, the 
fire-crackers, the flag-wavings. They are all a part of the 
contagious feeling and action of a lot of consciously, but 



248 A First Book in Psychology 

unreflectively, imitative selves. A reflective national con- 
sciousness is an utterly different sort of experience. The 
possessor of it has certain deep-seated social conceptions, 
ideals, and purposes; these have their significance to him 
as shared with a group of selves who are consciously re- 
lated with himself and with each other. These principles 
and ideals would be meaningless to the reflectively social 
individual, if they were merely his own. Yet he individually 
adopts and promulgates them, and he acts them out at the 
primaries, at the polls, and in public offlce. Such a reflective 
national consciousness may well be emotional, but it is not 
purely emotional, and its emotional attitudes are constant, 
not temporary and capricious. 

Different forms of college spirit illustrate the same dis- 
tinction. To cheer oneself hoarse at the athletic meet, and 
to join the men who carry the hero of the games in triumph 
from the field, may be a mere manifestation of mob-con- 
sciousness, an unreasoned, unpurposed wave of feeling, which 
carries one off one's feet in the contagion of a great enthu- 
siasm. But there is also a deliberate college spirit. The 
student is profoundly conscious that his pursuit of a well- 
shaped academic course, of a life of close social affiliations, 
and of an honorable college degree, is the aim of hundreds 
of other students. He realizes that he is imitating and, in 
some ways, leading them, and that they are both imitators 
and leaders of each other and of him. He more or less clearly 
recognizes that his advance is an alternate imitation of his 
teachers and his fellows, and a reaction against them. His 
degree has a purely social value dependent on other people's 
estimate of it. In a word, his college life is consciously and 
reflectively social. 



The Reflective Social Consciousness 249 

These illustrations have paved the way for a definition of 
the reflectively social consciousness, as (i) the reflective adop- 
tion of, or domination over^ the external activities and the 
conscious experience of other selves, who (2) are regarded 
as forming a social group. Such a group of reflectively social 
persons may be called 'society' in contrast with a crowd or 
mob. 

There is need to emphasize the truth that the reflective 
social consciousness is not merely imitative. The reflectively 
social person is aware of his power to lead, as well as 
of his capacity to follow. This tendency of the developed 
social consciousness has been greatly underemphasized. 
Monsieur Tarde, for example, believes that the essential 
nature of society is imitativeness. *' Socialite," he says,* 
'' c'est I'imitativite." It is perfectly evident that this defini- 
tion leaves out of account the characteristic attitude of the 
leader of society. Even those who have confused society 
with the mob have been the first to acknowledge the leader 
as related to the mob, yet not a member of it. "A crowd," 
Le Bon declares,! " is a servile flock — incapable of ever 
doing without a master." In truth, however wide the place 
we make for imitation as a social function, it can never dis- 
place spontaneity and leadership. The charge is lost when 
the officer falls, and the mob disperses when its leader 
wavers. Customs and conventions and fashions are imita- 
tions which are dominated by invention, and every institu- 
tion is, as Emerson said, 'the lengthened shadow of a man.' 
Nobody can deny that these masters of men, these cap- 
tains of industry, these world-conquerors, are men possessed 

* Cf. "Les Lois de I'lmitation," p. 75. 
t "The Psychology of the Crowd," p. 113. 



250 A First Book in Psychology 

of social consciousness. We certainly cannot attribute social 
feeling to the Old Guard and deny it to Napoleon. We 
cannot assert that the doers of the law have a realization of 
a public self, society, and that the makers of the law are 
without it. The sense of moulding the common purpose, 
of inflaming the public feeling, and of inciting a group of 
selves to imitative action, is as truly a social consciousness 
as the realization that one is imitating the thoughts and feel- 
ings and acts of a group of similarly imitative selves, at the 
inspiration of the same leader. 

This dominating phase of the reflectively social conscious- 
ness does not belong to the great leaders and masters only. 
On the contrary, every reflectively social individual may 
assume the dominating, imperious attitude, as well as the 
imitative, acknowledging attitude. Anybody may, more- 
over, take this attitude not only toward individuals but 
toward society — the reflectively social group whose members 
are realized as either imitative of each other or as dominat- 
ing each other. The consciousness of this relation of in- 
fluence lies at the basis of what is known as the realization 
of one's social duty. One may go to religious services, for 
example, and observe church festivals, not as a personal duty, 
but because one believes the observances socially valuable, 
and is conscious of one's actions as likely to affect other 
people's. More than this, as our study of will has suggested,* 
a dominating, not an imitative, attitude toward society is 
entirely possible when one is not master of a situation, and 
when, rather, one is leading a forlorn hope or, single-handed, 
defying a mob. Thus, the experience of Sokrates was pro- 
foundly social when, in the Heliastic Court, he stood alone 

* Cf. Chapter XII., p. 216. 



The Reflective Social Consciousness 251 

for a legal trial of the generals of iEgospotami, while the 
Athenians, beside themselves with horror over the unburied 
crews, were crying out for quick, vengeance on the leaders of 
that luckless sea-fight. Certainly Sokrates was conscious of 
himself as opposing, not a single man nor any fortuitous 
aggregate, but all Athens, a composite group-self whose 
members were being swept on in a universal passion to a 
common crime. 

The most important form of the reflectively social con- 
sciousness is the moral experience. Ethical systems differ, 
indeed, at many points and, in particular, some include and 
others exclude the consciousness of obligation as an essential 
factor of the moral consciousness. But all systems, with the 
one exception of that form of hedonism which teaches that 
individual pleasure is the chief good of life, unite in the 
admission that the moral life involves an altruistic recog- 
nition, by one individual, of the claims and of the needs of 
others. The great moral teachers — Jesus, Aristotle, Spi- 
noza, Kant, and Hegel — always conceive morality as realized 
relation of myself to others, and found all formulations of 
specific duty on the conception of myself as social being 
{ttoXltlkov fwoz^),* as 'member of the universal kingdom of 
ends ' t or as neighbor and brother. By some moralists, indeed , 
the moral consciousness in its social phase is not distinguished 
at all from the reflective social consciousness, and any reflect- 
ive realization of oneself, as member of a group of related 
selves, is regarded as a definitely moral experience. In the 
opinion of the writer, there is, however, a difference between 
the merely social and the ethically social attitude : any group, 

* Aristotle, "Politics," Book I., Chapter 2, 
t Kant, "Metaphysics of Ethics." 



252 A First Book in Psychology 

however small, of related selves, can be the object of a genu- 
inely social consciousness, but the moral consciousness keeps 
in view the relationship, not of any single group, but of all 
human selves, with each other. The purpose of ethical con- 
duct, therefore, is the realization of complete union between 
one self and all other selves. In other words, when I am 
acting morally, I am not aiming at my own pleasure or profit, 
I am not working to secure the ends of my friend, my family, 
my society, or even of my state : I am inspired by a wider 
purpose, an ideal of the harmonized claims and needs of 
all individuals. 

II. Imitation and Opposition 

As so far studied, the social consciousness has been dis- 
tinguished according to the social group — mob or society — 
which is its object. We may profitably discuss, a little further, 
two contrasted aspects, imitation and opposition, of the social 
consciousness and incidentally of social activities. Opposi- 
tion in its two forms, invention and imperiousness, is the atti- 
tude of the social leader; imitation and the allied relation of 
obedience are the attitudes of the follower, the member of the 
group, to the leader. We are here especially concerned with 
imitation and invention. Each, it is evident, is a phase of 
learning, a widening of individual experience ; but whereas 
imitation involves no social advance, but merely our indi- 
vidual progress, opposition in the form of invention implies 
an addition to the sum of human acquisition. 

If we try to discover how many of our daily acts are repe- 
titions of those of other people, we shall perhaps be sur- 
prised at our conclusion. We rise, breakfast, travel by car 
or by train, enter workroom or office or shop, work behind 



Imitation 253 

machine or counter or desk, lunch, work again, return to our 
houses, dine, amuse ourselves, and sleep; and innumerable 
other people, near and far, are also breakfasting, travelling, 
working, dining, and sleeping. Yet we are in error if we 
reckon all these repeated activities as imitations. An abso- 
lutely isolated individual, without opportunity to imitate 
any one, would nevertheless eat and sleep and move about. 
An imitation is an act or a conscious experience conditioned 
by another, or by others, similar to it. Repeated activities 
are not, then, of necessity, imitations, but may be independent 
expressions of an individual, though common, instinct. 

When, however, we weed out from the tangle of our re- 
peated acts and experiences those which are mere instinctive 
or else accidental repetitions, a goodly growth of imitations 
still remains. For example, though we sleep, not because 
others do, but because of the conditions of our individual 
bodies, yet we sleep on the ground or on beds, and from eight 
o'clock till five, or from dawn till noon, simply because the 
people who educated us and the people who surround us do 
the same. So we eat, not because others eat, but to satisfy 
individual needs ; yet we eat tallow or rice or terrapin, we eat 
with our fingers or with chop-sticks or with forks, and we eat 
from the ground, from mats or from tables, partly because 
people have taught us these ways, and partly because these 
are the manners of those about us. Again, our wanderings 
from place to place are unimitative, instinctive activities, but 
the manner of our travelling, on horseback, by automobile, or 
by aeroplane is, oftener than we think, a caprice of fashion. 

The list of our imitative acts is scarcely begun. The root- 
words of a language, except such as are instinctive vocal out- 
cries, are imitations of nature sounds, and language is always 



254 ^ First Book in Psychology 

acquired by imitation. People speak English or Dutch or 
Portuguese not accidentally, — as the child suggested, who 
feared that his baby brother might speak German, in place 
of EngHsh, — but through imitation of the people about us. 
Our handwriting is an imitation of our teacher's, and the 
earliest handwriting was abbreviated from the pictured imi- 
itation of natural objects. We bow to each other instead of 
rubbing noses ; we lace on calf boots instead of binding on 
sandals ; we read and write short stories instead of three- 
volumed romances; we revel in sociological heroines in place 
of romantic ones ; and we study psychical research and no 
longer burn witches. But all these acts, ideals, and tenden- 
cies are directly due to custom or fashion, that is, to imitation. 
We do and think all these things, and scores of others, because 
others act and think in these ways. 

Two forms of imitation are socially significant: fashion, 
or imitation of the present, of contemporary selves and facts, 
and tradition, or imitation of the past, of one's ancestors, 
their thoughts and their acts. In Paris, for instance, dress 
is regulated by fashion, which changes with every season, and 
every woman therefore dresses as her neighbor does. In 
Brittany, dress is a tradition, and every woman dresses as 
her great-grandmother did; the paysanne, who moves from 
one province to another, tranquilly, and as a matter of course, 
wears a coiffe which is as tall as that of the neighborhood is 
broad, as pointed as that is square, as unadorned as that is 
richly embroidered. This adherence to tradition as opposed 
to custom is the real distinction between conservative and 
radical. The latter need not himself be original and inven- 
tive, but he is friendly to innovation and receptive of the 
customs of his contemporaries; he breaks with the past and 



Imitation 255 

allies himself with the present; whereas the conservative 
clings to the past and imitates the traditional observance. 

Another distinction is that between physical and psychic 
imitation, imitation of movement and imitation of emotion 
or idea. Uniformities of movement — for example, those of 
drilling soldiers or of training oarsmen — are illustrations of 
the first class, and fashions in creed or in theory, such as the 
evolution hypothesis or the modern movement in favor of 
simplified spelling, are instances of the second sort. The 
truth is, however, that conscious imitation is only seconda- 
rily of thought or of act. Primarily and fundamentally, the 
object of imitation is another self or other selves, an individual 
or a social group; and the imitation consists in a conscious 
attempt to make oneself into this fascinating personality or 
to become one of this attractive circle. So the child imitates 
his father's stride, because it is his father's, not from any in- 
trinsic interest in the movement in itself, and is a fierce 
Jingo because his father sides with the imperialists, 
not because he himself inclines toward these principles 
rather than toward others. The life of the child shows most 
clearly, indeed, the intensely personal nature of imitation. 
The development of his own personality is, as Royce has 
taught* by the successive assumption of other people's per- 
sonality. Now, he imitates, or throws himself into, the life 
of the explorer ; he harnesses his cocker spaniel to an Arctic 
sledge made of an overturned chair, and he reaches the 
North Pole ahead of either Cook or Peary. A little later, 
his ideals are incarnated in the persons of military heroes: 
you will find him gallantly defending the pass at Thermopylae 
behind a breastwork of pillows, or sailing out to meet the 

* Century, 1894. 



256 A First Book in Psychology 

Spanish Armada on a precarious ship of tables ; he adopts a 
military step, organizes his companions into a regiment, 
attempts military music on his toy trumpet, cultivates in 
himself, and demands from others, the military virtues of 
obedience and courage. And in all this he is primarily 
imitating people, and is imitating specific acts and ideals, 
only as they are characteristic of these people. 

One need not turn, indeed, to the life of childhood for 
illustration of the fundamentally personal nature of imita- 
tion. For there surely are few adults whose aims are not 
embodied in human beings. Whether one's ideal is that 
of the student, the physician, or the diplomat, it stands 
out before one most clearly in the figure of some daring and 
patient scholar, some learned and sympathetic physician, 
some diplomat with insight and training. One's effort is 
often explicitly, and almost always implicitly, to be like this 
ideal self, to realize in oneself his outlook and his achieve- 
ments; and one is consciously satisfied with oneself when 
one has completed an investigation, made a diagnosis, or 
negotiated a treaty as this ideal self might have done it. 
The moral life, perhaps, offers the most frequent illustration 
of the personal character of imitation. Our ethical ideals 
live in the person of some great teacher, and our moral 
life is a conscious effort to be like him; our aims, also, are 
set before us as a supreme personal ideal, and we are bidden 
to "be perfect as our Father in Heaven is perfect." 

Leaving imitation, we have briefly to consider the main 
forms of the contrasted tendency. These have already been 
named : on the one hand, mere opposition to other selves and 
to their thoughts and their acts; and, on the other hand, 



opposition 257 

the leader's attitude, whether domination or invention, toward 
these other selves. In its simplest form, opposition consists 
in the will to be different from others. Unquestionably, this 
tendency has been underrated, in consequence of the almost 
exclusive interest of the sociologists in the function of imita- 
tion. In all save the most servile forms of the social con- 
sciousness there occurs alongside of the impulse to follow 
one's neighbors the instinct to show oneself unlike them, or — 
as the impulse is sometimes formulated — to show one's own 
individuality. We are most likely, of course, to find opposi- 
tion 'writ large' in the actions of children. But the mischief 
of a child which prompts him quite wilfully to say 'dog' or 
'cow' when he knows well that he has spelled c-a-t, to run 
when he is expected to walk sedately, and to talk when silence 
is demanded, is merely a more obvious expression of the 
opposition instinct, which lies at the basis of all eccentricity 
in dress, repartee in conversation, and inventiveness in science 
or in art. Throughout these varying manifestations we may 
descry the tendency to be different, to attain what Royce 
calls the ' contrast effect,' quite for its own sake and without 
effort to influence other people. In this way, 'opposition' 
is distinct from the kindred form of domination, or com- 
mand, the spirit of the leader of crowds and the organizer of 
societies. 

It must be pointed out, in conclusion, that imitation and in- 
vention are never separate in the sense that some people and 
some achievements are imitative and others inventive. The 
truth is that every normal person unites in himself, in varying 
proportions, these two fundamental tendencies of conscious- 
ness. Nobody could be absolutely original, if that means 
unimitative ; and conversely, one could hardly be a self with- 



258 A First Bbok in Psychology 

out some trace of opposition to one's environment. Thus, the 
most daring inventor makes use of the old principle, and the 
most original writer is imitative, at least to the extent of using 
language. On the other hand, few copies are so servile that 
they are utterly undistinguishable from the model. 

The intimate union of the two tendencies is shown, also, 
by the fact that the usual road to inventiveness is through imi- 
tation. In truth, any honest effort to imitate intelligently 
must result in transformation rather than in mechanical 
copying. The healthy mind simply cannot follow copy 
without the spontaneous and unexpected occurrence of 
suggestions for change — of hot air instead of steam, an iam- 
bic metre in place of a trochaic, burnt umber rather than 
sienna, or zinc solution in place of chloride. It matters not 
whether we work at machinery, at poetry, at painting, or at 
chemistry: we all become inventive by trying to imitate. 
A curious, yet common, result of this relation is the inventor's 
inability to realize the extent of the changes which he brings 
about. Fichte, for example, supposed that he was merely 
expounding Kant, until Kant disclaimed the exposition and 
stamped Fichte's doctrine as an injurious and heretical system 
of thought. 

Not only is it true that invention is always by way of imi- 
tation. It is also certain that the practically successful, that 
is, the permanent innovation, is the one which can be readily 
imitated. The inventor of machinery, so complicated that 
the common man cannot use it, will not succeed in introduc- 
ing his machines, and the promulgator of doctrine, so pro- 
found that few men can apprehend it, will not greatly in- 
fluence contemporary thought. This is the reason why the 
most original thinkers are so seldom leaders of their own 



Imitation and Opposition 259 

age ; why, for example, the teachings of Sokrates, of Jesus, of 
Galileo, and of Spinoza exerted so little influence on con- 
temporary thought. On the other hand, the brilliantly suc- 
cessful man almost always has that highest grade of common- 
place mind which strikes out nothing essentially new, but 
which is yet keenly susceptible to most suggestions, selecting 
from these, with unerring good judgment, the readily imi- 
table features. "Too original a thought is," as Baldwin says, 
"a social sport." Neither Rousseau nor the French Revolu- 
tion, he points out,* could make a democracy of France; for 
centuries under absolute rule had unfitted the French to imitate 
and to adopt ideals of liberte^ egalite, fraternite. For a like 
reason, Constantine could not christianize his legions by 
baptizing them; and indeed nobody ever yet foisted on a 
group of people any ideal which they were unprepared to 
imitate. 

* ''Social and Ethical Interpretations," p. 469. 



CHAPTER XV 

THE RELIGIOUS CONSCIOUSNESS 

I. Typical Personal Relations 

From the conception of psychology as science of myself in 
relation to my environment, personal and impersonal, it fol- 
lows that every concrete personal relation may be the basis of 
a psychological study. My relation to this friend and to that, 
to brother or father or wife or child, to my employer or to 
my servant — every one, indeed, of the relations, in which my 
life consists, may be reflected on, analyzed, and explained after 
this manner of the psychologist.^ The truth is, however, that 
a very healthy instinct prevents us, ordinarily, from this sort 
of analysis of our personal relations. We are too deeply 
absorbed, in living these relations, to reflect about them from 
the dispassionate scientist's point of view. We hesitate, and 
rightly, to pluck out the heart of our own mysteries ; we pre- 
fer to love and to have faith, to sympathize and to enjoy, to 
command and to yield, without rendering up to ourselves 
a balanced account of our attitude to other people. But 
though we rarely expose our personal relations to the dissect- 
ing knife of the psychologist, there is yet no reason why the 
text-book in psychology, in so far as it treats of the relations 
of selves, should not supply the lack of scientific analysis in 
our own lives, by furnishing us with a series of studies of 
typical, personal relations — studies, for example, of the filial, 
the fraternal, or the civic relation, or even more general studies, 

260 



Typical Personal Relations 261 

after the fashion of Hegel's analysis of typical moods of youth 
— the romantic, the Quix;otic, and the Byronic. But there 
is a practical reason why the text-book on psychology does 
not, ordinarily, include such studies of typical and universal 
relations. The novel and the drama have already usurped 
this function of the psychological treatise, and just because 
their characters, however typical, are also particular and 
highly individual, therefore the psychology of novel or of 
drama is more absorbing and closer to life than that of any 
treatise. It follows that the novel has become, in some 
degree, the popular introduction to psychology. 

The novel or drama is, of course, a study in the psychol- 
ogy of personal relations only. With the enumeration of 
structural elements of consciousness and the assignment of 
each to a physiological condition, it is only incidentally con- 
cerned; but the complexity and richness of the relations 
of its dramatis personce are the very soul of it. The interest 
of a Shakespeare play does not centre in the scene — the 
witches' heath or the field of Agincourt — nor in the rhythm 
and melody of the verses, but in the developing and con- 
trasting relations of the central figures to each other and to 
the lesser characters. Thus, the plays of which King Henry 
the Fifth is hero are a study of a youth of prominently active 
nature, in whom the emotions are undeveloped and unaccen- 
tuated. The love scene is sufficient proof of this : King Henry 
complains that he has "no genius in protestation," and that he 
" cannot look greenly nor gasp out his eloquence," but though 
he doubtless himself believes that he lacks only expression, the 
discriminating reader realizes that he is not capable of deep 
emotion, and that even while he laughs and plays pranks with 
Falstaff, and makes love to Kate, he is never carried out of 



262 A First Book in Psychology 

himself, never a prey to feeling; in a word, never in passive 
emotional relation to anybody, even to his sweetheart. Al- 
ways, therefore, on the battle-field or in the court of love, he 
is the plain soldier, actively and imperiously related to men, 
whether he hand them their death-warrants or give them his 
gloves as favors, whether he boast of his army's prowess or 
hearten his soldiers in their discouragement. 

But though, for the most part, we are content to leave in 
the hands of dramatist and of novelist the treatment of 
concrete personal relations, there is one such relation so 
universal, so significant, and so often misapprehended, that 
we shall here consider it. This is the relation of human to 
divine self. 

II. The Religious Consciousness 

The study of religion may be undertaken from several 
points of view. One may study the history of religions, 
tracing the development of one from another and taking 
note of the place of religion in the life of different peoples; 
or one may study the philosophy of religion, assigning to its 
objects a place in the whole universe of reality. Funda- 
mental, however, both to the history and to the philosophy 
of religion is the psychological study of the religious con- 
sciousness. Such a study must begin, like every psychological 
investigation, by a study of my own consciousness, but will 
be supplemented by reference to historical records of reli- 
gious experience. Its specific starting-point must be some 
admitted definition of the religious consciousness. Many 
definitions may be found, but simplest and most adequate, 
in the opinion of the writer, is the conception of religion as 
the conscious relation of human self to divine self, that 



The Religious Consciousness 263 

is, to a self regarded as greater than this human self or than 
any of its fellows.^* 

If there were space to argue in detail for this conception 
of the religious consciousness, one would first of all point 
out that it lies at the base of all historical forms of religion. 
As is well known, living beings and nature phenomena are 
the objects of the primitive religious consciousness. An- 
cestor-worship is the most important form of the worship 
of conscious beings ; fetichism and the worship of the heavenly 
bodies are the extreme forms of the nature religions. Now it 
is obvious that the worship of the dead warrior or patriarch, 
and indeed the worship of any person, or even of any ani- 
mal, living or dead, is a conscious relation of the worshipper 
to another self. But it seems, at first sight, as if the wor- 
ship of a nature phenomenon could not be in any sense a 
conscious relation to a greater self. A fetich is an insig- 
nificant object, a bit of bone or a twig or a pebble, not a 
living being; and sun, moon, air, and water, the gods of 
the nature religions, are inanimate beings. A closer study, 
however, shows that these objects, fetiches as well as sun 
and moon and stars, are worshipped, not for what they are, 
but because they are looked upon as embodiments of con- 
scious selves. No savage is so ignorant that he fears and 
reverences a bit of bone, as mere bone; he worships it be- 
cause he looks upon it as, in some mysterious way, the instru- 
ment or symbol of a powerful, though unseen, self cr spirit. 
And no Aryan, we may be sure, ever bowed down before the 
sun, feeling that his god was a mere flaming, yellow ball. 
He worshipped the sun as a being apart from him and in- 
finitely greater than he, yet none the less a self, however 

* For Notes i and 2, cf. Appendix, Section XV. 



264 A First Book in Psychology 

vaguely conceived. Nature souls, in the words of Pfleiderer, 
a well-known historian of religion, "are originally nothing 
but the livingness and active power of the phenomena of 
nature, conceived after the analogy of animal and man as 
willing and feeling beings." * 

If this were a book about religion, instead of being a book 
about psychology, it would go on to show that the systems 
which seem to diverge from this conception are no true 
exceptions. It would show, also, that the history of reli- 
gion chronicles, in a sort of pendular succession, a reaction 
of two motives, one upon the other. A given religion, while 
it must include both factors, emphasizes either the superior 
power of its gods or else their essential likeness to human 
beings. In the lower forms of animism, for example, there 
is little difference between god and worshipper; and the 
gods of the Hellenes, who live among men, feasting, plot- 
ting, making love, come perilously near to losing the divine 
attribute of power. The higher nature-deities, on the other 
hand, are revered as immeasurably greater than human 
beings. 

The history of religious rite offers another proof of the 
personal nature of the religious consciousness. ''To speak 
boldly," Clement of Alexandria says, "prayer is conversa- 
tion with God." t In similar fashion, Tylor defines prayer 
as "the address of personal spirit to personal spirit." ff The 
prayer, often quoted, of the Samoyed woman on the steppes 
shows very clearly how simple may be this communication 
of the human with the divine. In the morning, bowing 

* "Philosophy of Rehgion," Vol. III., p. 237. Cf. E. B. Tylor, ''Primi- 
tive Culture," Vol. II., pp. 185 and 294. 
t " Stromatum," Vol. VII., 242, d. 
ft Op. cit., Vol. II., p. 364. 



The Religious Consciousness 265 

down before the sun, §he said only, 'When thou risest, I 
too rise from my bed,' and in the evening she said, 'When 
thou sinkest down, I too get me to rest.' * Here we have 
neither petition, confession, nor explicit adoration, but mere 
intercourse, that is, acknowledgment of common experience. 
Prayer may be, indeed, a mere request for material good like 
the Gold Coast negro's prayer, " God give me rice and 
yams, gold and agries, give me slaves, riches, and health,"* 
or it may be a prayer for forgiveness, like the Aryan's cry, 
"Through want of strength, thou strong and bright God, 
have I gone wrong; have mercy, almighty, have mercy; " f 
but whatever its form, prayer, like sacrifice, is always the 
communion of the human with the more-than- human spirit. 
This introductory reference to the history of religions 
and of religious rites prepares us for our specific problem, 
the nature of the religious consciousness. The conception 
which we have gained enables us, in the first place, ft to limit 
the essentials of the religious experience. Ritual and cere- 
monial, theories of heaven and hell, and even hopes of im- 
mortality, are religious only in so far as they grow out of 
the consciousness of God or grow up into it ; in the realiza- 
tion and immediate acquaintance with God, the religious 
experience has its centre and its circumference. We shall 
gain a truer understanding, therefore, of the religious con- 
sciousness, if we do not regard it as an experience radically 
different from the other personal relations of our lives. For 
if God be just a greater self, then -one's attitude toward him 

* Tylor, op. cit,, Vol. II., pp. 291, 292; and p. 367. 

t Quoted by Tylor, op. cit., Vol. II., p. 374, from the Rig Veda, VII., 

89,3- 

ft This sentence, and a few of those which follow, are quoted from a 
paper, by the writer, in the New World, 1896. 



266 A First Book in Psychology 

cannot be utterly unlike one's attitude toward a powerful 
human friend or chief. In our study of the religious con- 
sciousness, we must thus be guided throughout by the 
analogy of human relationships. 

Now human beings are, first of all, liked or disliked, 
feared or thanked, loved or hated, and in the same way the 
religious experience is always, certainly in part, emotional. 
At its lowest emotional terms, it includes at least the feeling 
of the dependence of the human on the divine. But ordi- 
narily the religious experience is far richer in emotion, and 
there is, indeed, no significant phase of human feeling 
which may not as well characterize the relation of man to 
God as that of man to man. Abject fear, profound grati- 
tude, bitter hatred, or devoted love may be factors of the 
religious experience. The savage, who bribes his gods 
through fear of them, and the rebels who cry out, "All we 
are against thee, against thee, O God most high," are as 
truly religious in their emotion as the humblest and most 
self-forgetful worshippers. 

We have found, however, in our analysis of personal 
relations, that there is an active as well as a passive atti- 
tude to other selves, a relation of faith or will, as well as 
an emotional relation of fear or reverence. This active 
acknowledgment of loyalty or faith is the second charac- 
teristic phase of religious experience. It may loe touched 
by emotion, yet it is sometimes an utterly unemotional 
acknowledgment of the divine self, a submission to what 
one conceives to be his will, an adoption of what one looks 
upon as his ideal, a resolute loyalty unlighted by emotions 
supported only by a sober and perhaps rather dreary con- 
viction of duty. It may be questioned whether there is a 



The Religious Consciousness 267 

more heroic type of religious experience than just this cold 
adoption of what one conceives to be the right relation to 
God. 

We are thus brought, face to face, with the significant 
problem regarding the connection between the religious 
and the ethical experience. Our definition of religion, as 
relation of the human self to the divine, provides us with 
a standard by which to test the frequent claim that morality 
is religion. This claim is often strongly opposed on his- 
torical grounds. It is pointed out that primitive religions 
are full of positively immoral customs and rites, that the 
Borneans, for example, gain new spirits by head-hunting, 
and that the Oceanians have a god of thieving, to whom 
they offer a bit of their booty, bribing him to secrecy with 
such words as these: "Here is a bit of the pig; take it, good 
Hiero, and say nothing of it." * Such an argument, how- 
ever, is inadequate, no matter how firmly established the 
facts on which it is based. For though Borneans and 
Oceanians and all other savage people perform acts, which 
we call wrong, as parts of their religious observance, it may 
be that they do not thereby violate their own moral codes. 

The opposition between religion and morality lies deeper. 
The religious experience is fundamentally a consciousness 
of God or of gods, a realized relation of the worshipper to 
a spirit or to spirits who a.re greater than he and greater 
also than his fellow-men. The moral consciousness, on the 
other hand, is, as has appeared, a form of the social con- 
sciousness, a man's recognition of his place in the whole 
interrelated organism of human beings. Now, just as any 
human relation is incomplete and unworthy, if it lacks the 

* Cf. Ratzel, "History of Mankind," Vol. I., p. 304. 



268 A First Book in Psychology 

moral experience, the consciousness, in some sense, of obli- 
gation toward another self, so the religious consciousness is 
superficial, unhealthy, and fragmentary, if it does not include 
the acknowledgment of duty toward God. But though reli- 
gion without morality is ethically degrading, it is none the 
less religion. Any conscious relation to God, however low 
and lifeless, however destitute of moral responsibility, is 
religion; and no morality, however sublime, no life, how- 
ever noble, is religious, if it lack this conscious relation to 
God. It follows, of course, that a bad man may be reli- 
gious and that a good man may lack the consciousness of 
his relation to God. Undoubtedly, therefore, certain ethical 
systems are better and safer guides than certain religious 
creeds. Religion, however, is not and cannot be morality, 
simply because religion is, and morality is not, a conscious 
relation of human self to the divine. 

The aesthetic, almost as frequently as the moral, experi- 
ence is mistaken for religion. The profound emotion, with 
which one falls upon one's knees with the throng of wor- 
shippers in a great cathedral, is named religious awe, though 
it is quite as likely to be what Du Maurier calls mere 'sen- 
suous attendrissement.^ The stately proportions of nave and 
transept, the severe beauty of pillar and arch, the rich color- 
ing of stained glass, the thrilling sounds of the organ, and 
the heavy odor of the incense may hold one's whole soul 
enthralled, and leave no room for the realization of any 
personal attitude to a God who is in or behind all this 
beauty. In the same way, the absorbed study of nature 
beauty is a self-forgetful, but not, for that reason, a religious, 
experience. 

This teaching, it must be admitted, is in opposition to the 



The Religious Consciousness 269 

modern tendency to class experiences as religious if they 
do not deal directly with material needs and conditions. 
But the very breadth and comprehensiveness of these con- 
ceptions make them, in the writer's opinion, valueless. It 
is indeed true that the religious, the ethical, and the aesthetic 
consciousness are alike, in that they are, in a greater or less 
degree, altruistic rather than merely egoistic experiences. It 
is, however, misleading to .confuse relations which, though 
similar in one respect, are none the less sharply distinguished. 

Our study of the religious experience has not yet even 
named what is ordinarily accounted its most important fac- 
tor : the conviction of God's reality, or — as it is commonly 
called — belief. The truth is that belief, in this sense, is 
not a part of any personal experience, that is, of any rela- 
tion of one self with another. We are not occupied, in our 
personal relationships, with reflections upon one another's 
reality : we merely like or dislike each other, and are loyal 
or imperious. We may, to be sure, be conscious of the 
reality of God and of our human fellows, but this reflection 
upon reality is usually a phase of the philosophical con- 
sciousness, and not even an ingredient of the religious ex- 
perience. Certainly, a bare conviction of the actual exist- 
ence of another self, human or divine, by whom one does 
not feel oneself affected, to whom one is utterly unrelated, 
is not a personal experience at all. A belief of the reality of 
the deposed Turkish Sultan, Abdul Hamid, is no personal 
relation with him; and the mere persuasion that there 
exists a Supreme Being does not constitute a religious ex- 
perience. 

But though the conviction of reality does not enter into 
the immediateness of the personal experience, it is evident 



270 A First Book in Psychology 

that no relationship with God is possible to one who is dis- 
tinctly convinced that there is no God. Some degree of 
the conviction of God's reality must, therefore, form the 
background of every religious experience, except the primi- 
tive personal relation in which one neither questions nor 
believes.* But this sense of God's reality has unsuspected 
gradations of assurance, lying between the extremes of 
doubt and reasoned conviction. The consciousness of 
God's reality may attain the completeness of philosophical 
dogma, but it may, on the other hand, be incomplete and* 
illogical; it may be firmly held or it may be feeble and 
vacillating. For the truth is, as we have seen, that this 
consciousness of reality is, at most, a secondary and unem- 
phasized part of religious experience; and religion is, as we 
cannot too often repeat, a relation with God, like our rela- 
tions with our fellow-men. In Fichte's words: "Herein reli- 
gion doth consist, that man in his own person and not in 
that of another, with his own spiritual eye and not through 
that of another, should immediately behold, have, and 
possess God." 

* Cf. Chapter XIII , p. 239. 



APPENDIX 



This Appendix contains: (i) Bibliographical lists and footnote refer- 
ences. (2) Critical discussions of disputed problems in psychology, and 
supplementary notes upon topics briefly treated in the body of the book. 
(3) An account (Section III.) of the human body, in particular, of the 
nervous system and of the sense-organs, which amplifies the condensed 
statements of the preceding chapters. (4) A brief section (XVI.) on 
abnormal psychology. (5) A collection (Section XVII.) of questions, 
designed to test the student's first-hand understanding of the facts of 
psychology, and following the order of topics discussed in the successive 
chapters of the book. 

The references to literature are in no sense exhaustive. They are full- 
est in the case of the difficult subjects and with reference to the topics 
most under dispute. Few references have been given to the standard 
text-books and, on the other hand, an effort has been made to take ac- 
count of recent periodical and monograph literature. For other bibh- 
ographies, the student may consult: M. W. Calkins, "An Introduction 
to Psychology," 1901, pp. 492 ff. (with supplement to the bibliography 
in the second edition, 1905) ; E. B. Titchener, *' Experimental Psychology, 
Qualitative Experiments, Instructor's Manual," 190 1, passim, and Ap- 
pendix II., and "A Text-book of Psychology," 1909, passim; also, the 
yearly Index of periodical literature published by the Psychological 
Review. 



272 



APPENDIX 

SECTION I.* 

I. The Conception of Psychology as Science of Related 
Selves contrasted with Other Conceptions 

a. psychology as science of ideas 

§ I. Psychology, as we have studied it, is the science of self in 
relation to environment. This conception must be compared 
with two others widely held. According to the first of these, 
psychology studies not the self but the succession of ideas (so-called 
mental processes) one upon the other, each as belonging to a 
definite moment. Prom this point of view, the psychologist is 
concerned not with the self as perceiving, but with the percept ; not 
with the self as willing, or in assertive relation to other self or thing, 
but with the volition — in a word, not with the self as conscious of 
objects, but with consciousness regarded impersonally without 
reference to any self. 

In the opinion of the writer of this book, this conception of psy- 
chology is self -consistent and possible. In other words, con- 
sciousness may be treated, scientifically, as series of ideas; and 
percepts, images, thoughts, and the rest may be analyzed, classified, 
and explained by reference to parallel physical and physiological 
phenomena. But there are two conclusive objections to such a 
procedure. In the first place, it arbitrarily neglects a part of our 
immediate consciousness, and, in the second place, it offers an 

* Sections I.-XV. of this Appendix correspond, each for each, with the 
fifteen chapters of the body of the book. Each section is divided into sub- 
sections, indicated by Arabic numerals; and indices from each chapter of 
the book refer to these numbered subsections. The page headings of the 
Appendix refer back to those pages in the body of the book on which the 
Appendix comments. 

T 273 



274 Supplement to Chapter I. [Pages 

inadequate description of consciousness. To begin with the 
first of these criticisms: on this view, psychology is science of 
ideas. But I cannot be conscious of an idea except as idea of a 
self; implicitly, if not explicitly, I am always conscious of a self, as 
having the idea or experience. If, therefore, I define psychology 
as science of ideas, I raise the inevitable question: "whose idea? " 
and then refuse arbitrarily to answer the question. 
. Idea-psychology, in the second place, though it unquestionably 
offers a scientific treatment of consciousness, does not adequately 
describe the different forms of human experience. The character- 
istic methods which it shares with all forms of psychology are, 
(i) structural analysis and (2) classification and explanation* by 
reference to regularly preceding, accompanying, and following 
physical and physiological conditions. But our study of psy- 
chology has surely shown that perception and recognition and 
thought, and, more obviously but no more truly, emotion, will, 
and faith, are incompletely described when analyzed into merely 
structural elements and referred to bodily conditions. Perception 
is, indeed, indistinguishable from imagination except as it is re- 
garded as a shareable and not a private experience; emotion is 
not merely pleasant or unpleasant : it is an individualizing and a 
receptive experience. For both the reasons which have been 
named, the conception of psychology, as science of ideas, must 
be rejected as an unsatisfactory programme for the psychologist. 

h. PSYCHOLOGY AS SCIENCE OF MENTAL FUNCTIONS 

A second contemporary conception of psychology is as science 
of mental functions, or functional psychology. This doctrine is 
not so clearly cut nor so precisely formulated as that of idea- 
psychology, for the word ' function ' is used with different shades of 
meaning by different writers of this group. Common to all 'func- 
tional ' theories is the conception of function as activity ; but — 
partly, no doubt, because of the indefiniteness of this term ' activity ' 

* On the sense of explanation in psychology, see a paper by the writer, 
Journal of Philosophy, 1908, V., pp. 16 ff. 



3-6] Appendix, Section /., § i 275 

— many functional psychologists define it more precisely as re- 
action directed toward environment ; and often proceed to describe 
the reaction as biologically useful.* 

To this, as a complete conception of psychology, there is an objec- 
tion exactly parallel to the first of those advanced against idea- 
-psychology. A function, whether defined merely as activity or as 
useful reaction to environment, is the function of a functioner; 
and there is no activity which is not the activity of an actor. 
Therefore, I simply cannot study mental functions without at 
the same time studying the functioning self. For just as the study 
of ideas raises the unavoidable question, ''whose idea?" so the 
consideration of mental functions directly involves the question: 
" functions of whom?" To define psychology as science of mental 
functions without referring the functions to the functioning self, is, 
therefore, an entirely artificial proceeding. 

More closely scrutinized, functional psychology turns out, in 
the second place, to be either a synonym for self-psychology or 
else, once more, only a partial psychology. If the term 'function ' 
be taken with the meaning 'reaction to environment,' and if the 
environment be then described, in Professor Angell's words, as 
'social' and not merely ' physical,' f it must follow that a 'func- 
tion' is a social relation, — in other words, a personal attitude. If, 
on the other hand, the term 'function' be taken in a strictly bio- 
logical sense, then the account of different sorts of conscious- 
ness as different reactions to environment, — as adaptations or 
variations, as self-preservations or propagations, — these ac- 
counts will explain and classify psychic phenomena, but will in no 
sense describe them psychologically. To call fear, for example, an 
instinctive, self-preservative reaction of withdrawal, classifies and 
(in a way) explains the emotion of fear, but no more describes it 
than the statement, "a Watteau painted fire screen protects from 
the heat of the fire" describes the Watteau figures. The classi- 
fication of a psychological experience as biologically useful is both 
correct and significant, but so far from fulfilling the requirements 

* Cf. Journal of Psychology, 1907, IV., pp. 681 ff., with citations. 
t "Psychology," p. 7.^ 



276 Supplement to Chapter L [Pages 

of psychological analysis, it is not psychological description at all. 
Such description is, indeed, impossible without the study of a self, 
in personal relation, emphasized or unemphasized, receptive or 
assertive, egoistic or altruistic, to an environment which is personal 
as well as biological. 

C. CONSIDERATIONS IN FAVOR OF SELF-PSYCHOLOGY 

I. Answers to Objections 

The discovery that many psychologists oppose or ignore this 
conception of psychology, as science of self, obliges us to marshal 
the arguments for the theory. We may profitably begin by con- 
sidering the objections which have been urged against it. These 
are chiefly three. It is objected, in the first place, that the con- 
ception of self, however justified, is a philosophical rather than 
a scientific conception. This objection is, perhaps, too technical 
to be discussed here in detail. Those, however, who believe with 
the writer, that any fact open to everyday observation — a stone, 
a word, a manoeuvre — may be scientifically studied will see no 
difficulty in the conception of a scientific study of facts so univer- 
sally admitted to exist as selves. 

One form which this objection takes must, however, be opposed 
with energy. Briefly stated, it consists first in identifying the self 
of psychology with some philosophical conception of self and then 
in arguing, rightly enough, that the philosophical conception is out 
of place in psychology. But between the philosophical and the 
psychological conception of the self there is a well-marked distinc- 
tion. The psychologist does not ask whether or not the seK is 
material or immaterial, inherently worthy or worthless, endless or 
finite. By self (or subject, ego, mind, soul) the psychologist may 
mean much less than the philosopher means. Certain characters 
of the soul as conceived by mediaeval and modern philosophy are 
entirely excluded from the psychologist's self. Obviously, there- 
fore, the self cannot be drummed out of the psychologist's camp 
by arguments directed against one form or another of the philo- 
sophical conception. 



3-6] Appendix, Section /., § i 277 

A second objection to the doctrine of self as set forth in this book 
is brought forward by some of the functional psychologists. This 
conception of the self is, they urge, too exclusively psychological. 
We know no disembodied selves, and the psychologist should 
therefore study the mind in the body. Or, as this theory is some- 
times stated, the unit or basal conception of psychology is the 
psychophysical organism, the unity of mind and body. To this 
objection the following reply may be made: Unquestionably, the 
self whom, as psychologists, we study, is a self in close relation 
to a body; and the study of the physical conditions and of the 
bodily reactions accompanying consciousness is of great impor- 
tance. But there is no complete 'unity of mind and body.' Even 
the advocates of this theory are obliged to distinguish between 
purely physiological functions, such as digestion and circulation, 
and purely psychical, or conscious, functions. By this distinction 
they implicitly refer the physiological functions to the physiological 
organism, the body, and the psychical functions to a conscious 
functioner, the self.* Psychology may well treat this conscious 
functioner as its peculiar subject-matter. 

A final objection is urged against self -psychology (and, for that 
matter, against functional psychology) by the idea-psychologists. 
These claim that the structural analysis into elements — sensa- 
tional, affective, and the like — is possible only if consciousness be 
conceived as stream of ideas. If this objection were well-founded, 
it would be decisive ; for it is evident that perception, for example, 
is sensational ; that emotion is affective — in a word, that con- 
sciousness is incompletely described without the structural analysis 
into elements. But the self -psychologist rightly denies the prem- 
iss of this argument. One can as well analyze ' my perceiving ' 
as ' a percept ' into sensational elements ; one can as well reduce 
'my fear' as 'a fear' to elements among which unpleasantness 
and organic sensations are prominent. 

*Cf. Journal of Philosophy, V., p. 13. 



278 Supplement to Chapter I, [Pages 

2. Positive Considerations 

The answer to objections is an insufficient basis for any theor}\ 
The doctrine of psychology as science of self has, however, a more 
independent foundation — the testimony of introspection. Because 
I am directly conscious of a unique, a relatively persisting self in 
relation to its environment, therefore I assert the existence of a self 
and scientifically study its constituents and relations. 

It follows that the self-psychologist has no way of answering an 
opponent who asserts, ^'I have no consciousness of self." In 
other words, psychology as science of selves can be studied only by 
one who believes, or assumes, that he is directly conscious of hirii- 
seK. But even to an opponent who denies the fact from which he 
starts, the self-psychologist can at least show the plausibility or 
respectability of his position by pointing out, first, that some or all 
of those who deny the existence of a self-for-psychology implicitly 
assume the existence of such a self; and second, that many psy- 
chologists of admitted worth explicitly adopt the conception. 

To substantiate the first of these statements, one has only to 
read the books of the idea-psychologists and to notice how con- 
stantly they describe and define consciousness in terms of the self, 
or I. Professor Ebbinghaus, for example, though he describes 
the soul as "nothing save (nichts ausser) the totality" of mental 
contents, none the less says that the soul is "a being," that it "has 
thoughts, sensations, wishes, is attentive or inattentive, remembers 
{erinnert sich), etc."* And Dr. Witasek, though he teaches that 
"we (!) find in our consciousness only ideas, feelings, etc., and not 
something else besides which should be fundamental to them," 
yet says unequivocally: "Psychic facts belong to individuals: 
a feeling, for example, is either mine or somebody else's." f 

The idea-psychologist has, it is true, two answers to this charge 
of making implicit use of the conception of self. In the first place, 
he urges that he means by 'self,' as he uses the term, merely my 

* ''Abriss der Psychologic," 1908, 4, p. 41. 

t " Grundlinien der Psychologie," 1908, I. Teil, Kap. 2, pp. 42, 38. (The 
exclamation point mine.) Cf. pp. 100, 231, 350. 



3-6] Appendix, Section /., § i 279 

body — either my physical organism as a whole or my nervous system 
in particular. But in this case he should regard the body, not the 
mind, as the real object of psychology; and this is foreign to the 
point of view of idea-psychology. Again, the opponent of self -psy- 
chology justifies his use of its words by the observation that, provided 
he define his terms, he has a right to employ everyday language 
in a technical sense. If, then, he define 'mind' as 'sum-total of 
ideas,' and 'self or 'I ' as 'human body,' he may say "I fear," and 
should be understood to mean: "A process occurs which is re- 
ferred to the human body, and is analyzable into unpleasantness 
and organic sensations." The conventional expression, 'I,' he 
holds, no more binds the user to the obvious everyday meaning 
of it than the remark "the sun has set" marks an advocate of the 
Ptolemaic theory of astronomy. One may reply to this argument 
by carrying the illustration further. Surely, no Copernican, 
particularly in the days when the doctrine was still in dispute, 
would have claimed the right to describe astronomical phenomena 
in terms of the Ptolemaic theory. Similarly, the opponent of self- 
psychology should describe the phenomena of consciousness with- 
out use of a term which, to say the least, predisposes his reader to 
substitute for the conception of self as body, and of mind as sum 
of ideas, the conception, explicitly denied, of conscious self in 
relation to environment. The self-psychologist has then some 
right to urge that idea-psychologists are implicitly assuming or 
leading their readers to assume the existence of a self, when they 
describe consciousness in such words as ''I attend to a color," 
"I perceive objects"; and still more when they mark off certain 
experiences as peculiarly personal ; that is, as especially related to 
myself. 

In addition to these challenged implications of self, many un- 
compromising assertions that psychology is science of the self may 
be found in the writings of contemporary psychologists, though 
they often substitute, for the word 'self,' some one of the expressions, 
subject, ego, mind, or even soul. Thus, Professor Ward defines the 
standpoint of psychology as that 'of the living subject in intercourse 
with his special environment.' And Professor Judd says ex- 



28o Supplement to Chapter I. [Pages 

plicitly, "Psychology deals with the self." Other supporters of 
self -psychology, and its critics as well, are cited in the bibliography 
at the close of this section. 

II. The Conception of the Object in Psychology 

§ 2. The conception of object which this book sets forth is so 
likely to be misunderstood, that it will here be amplified. It 
should first be noted that the standpoint from which one speaks of 
objects of the self is, as James says, dualistic; but that it is psy- 
chologically, not ultimately, dualistic, so that the monist in phi- 
losophy may, as psychologist, unconcernedly adopt it. The basis of 
the conception is the fact that I always find myself conscious of an 
object: of myself or my experience, of other self or thing or 
relation. More fully stated: In being conscious, I am always 
conscious (even if vaguely conscious) of myself as related either to 
an object or to that totality of objects which I call my environment. 
Psychology, if it is to take account of the self, must, therefore, take 
account of the object. Indeed, all psychologists, whether or not 
they purport to study the self, really describe and classify conscious- 
ness with reference to objects. They classify attention, for ex- 
ample, as sensational or intellectual, according as one attends to 
sensational or to unsensational objects ; or they refer to color and 
to tone not only as sensations, but as existing outside eye or ear. 
This book follows Ward and James in the explicit recognition of 
the object of consciousness. In the words of the former: 
"Psychology deals with the subjective standpoint of individual 
experience, but we find that in this experience both subject and 
object are factors." * Or, to quote Professor Mitchell (who, how- 
ever, for 'object' uses the word 'content'), " When conscious, I am 
always conscious of a definite something or other; and this is 
called the content of my experience or consciousness." f 

It is important to emphasize the wideness of application of the 
word 'object,' thus used, and expressly to repudiate certain incor- 

* British Journal of Psychology (cited p. 283), I., i, p. 17. 
t " Structure and Growth of the Mind," Lecture I., § 3, p. 11. Mitchell 
defines ' object ' as content of knowledge or thought. 



3-6] Appendix, Section /., §2 281 

rect uses of the term. The object of the psychological self may take 
one of several forms, and cannot therefore be forthwith identified 
with any one of them. These forms, already enumerated,* are the 
following: (i) public objects of many or all selves whether {a) 
personal (that is, other selves) or (h) impersonal, and in this case, 
either external physical objects, or non-external relations, laws, 
and the like; (2) private, or psychological, objects, either (a) 
myself, in relation to environment, or {h) my experiences. Our 
greatest danger is that of confusing the object, in the general and 
inclusive sense, with the public object — what Ward calls the 
epistemological object — and especially with the external object 
of the physical sciences. It is permissible, however, but only 
where no ambiguity thereby arises, to use the word ' object ' in 
what was perhaps its primary meaning, as indicating the ' other- 
than-myself ' (that is, as including all forms of object except the 
private personal object), f and even to use the term, in either of 
the narrower senses, to mean ' public ' or ' external ' object. 

A common confusion of the object with one special form of 
external object must be avoided with particular care. By the 
object of the self or of consciousness is never meant the stimulus, 
physical or physiological, of consciousness. The two are, indeed, 
to be contrasted sharply. When the object of my consciousness is, 
for example, the theatre curtain, the physical stimuli are ether 
vibrations, and the physiological excitations are obscure processes in 
retina and in brain of which I need never have heard and which, at 
best, I infer and do not perceive. In a word, the physical and 
physiological stimuli of consciousness are the phenomena of phys- 
ical science, usually inferred, not perceived, whereas the object of 
consciousness is that of which I am conscious, without reference 
to which I cannot adequately describe my consciousness. 

It has been pointed out in Chapter I. that important questions 
are raised by the conception of the object of consciousness: a 
fundamental question about the identity of subject and object; a 
second question about the alleged externahty of objects of percep- 

* Cf. Chapter I., p. 4. 

f This is Ward's use of the term ' psychological object. ' 



282 Supplement to Chapter L [Pages 

tion; and, we may here add, a special problem about the precise 
nature of the objects of the relational consciousness. None of 
these questions, it must be reiterated, force themselves upon the 
psychologist" so long as he holds steadily to his own business, 
the description and explanation of consciousness, regarded as the 
relation of self to environment. The psychologist, in other words, 
assumes, on the testimony of his direct consciousness, that a self 
related to object exists. By reflection, he distinguishes different 
attitudes of self and different forms of the object. The ultimate 
nature of both he leaves to the philosopher to discuss. 

III. Bibliography on Fundamental Conceptions 
OF Psychology 

(a) On psychology as science of self, as science of ideas, as science of 
functions: (i) Summary: M. W. Calkins, Psychology: What is it 
About, Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Method, 1907, 
Vol. IV., pp. 673 ff. ; 1908, pp. 12 ff., 64 ff., 113 ff. 

(2) On structural psychology : E. B. Titchener, The Postulates of a 
Structural Psychology, Philos. Review, 1898, VII., pp. 449 ff.; A Text- 
book of Psychology, 1909, §§ 2-9. F. H. Bradley, A Defence of Phe- 
nomenalism in Psychology, Mind, 1900, N.S. IX., pp. 26 ff. H. Mun- 
sterberg, Grundziige der Psychologic, Kapitel II. 

(3) On functional psychology: J. R. Angell, The Province of Func- 
tional Psychology, Psychol. Review, XIV., pp. 63 ff. K. Stumpf, Er- 
scheinungen und psychische Funktionen, 1907. 

(4) For criticisms of self -psychology: W. B. Pillsbury, The Ego and 
Empirical Psychology, Philos. Review, XVI., pp. 387 ff . E. B. Titchener, 
ibid., 1906, XV., pp. 93 ff. M. F. Washburn, Journal of Philosophy, 
II., p. 716. 

(5) On self -psychology : M. W. Calkins, An Introduction to Psy- 
chology, 1901, 1905, Der doppelte Standpunkt in der Psychologic, 1905; 
A Reconciliation between Structural and Functional Psychology, 
Psychol. Review, 1906, XIII., pp. 61 ff. ; Psychology: What is it About 
(cited above). W. Mitchell, Structure and Growth of the Mind, 1907, 
Lecture I., esp. §§ 3, 5, 7. J. Rehmke, Lehrbuch der Allgemeinen Psy- 
chologic, Iter Teil, esp. §§ 11, 12. W. Stern, " Person und Sache, 
System der philosophischen Weltanschauung," I. J. Ward, On the 



3-6] Appendix, Section III. 283 

Definition of Psychology, British Journal of Psychology, 1904, 1., pp. i fF. ; 
Encyclopaedia Britannica, Vol. XX., article Psychology, pp. 38, 39. 

(b) On the conception of the object: Cf. Mitchell and Ward, cited above. 
Also, W. James, The Principles of Psychology, Vol. I., Chapter VIII., 
pp. 218 ff. ; Chapter IX., pp. 271 ff. H. Miinsterberg, Grundziige der 
Psychologic, pp. 65 ff., esp. p. 72; and Psychotherapy, VI., pp. 130 ff. 

(c) On parallelism in psychology : H. Ebbinghaus, Grundziige der 
Psychologic, 1902, I., §4, pp. 27 ff. (For the opposite view, cf. James, 
op. cit., I., Chapter V., esp. pp. 128-138. G. S. Stratton, Modified 
Causation for Psychology, Psychol. Bulletin, 1907, IV., 129 ff. 

(d) For criticisms {mainly metaphysical) of the conception of con- 
sciousness : W. James, Does Consciousness Exist ? Journal of Philosophy, 
etc., I., pp. 477 ff. R. B. Perry, Conceptions and Misconceptions of Con- 
sciousness, Psychol. Review, XL, pp. 282 ff. F. J. E. Woodbridge, The 
Problem of Consciousness, Garman Commemorative Volume, pp. 137 ff. 
(Cf. Journal of Philosophy, 1907, IV., p. 677, for further references to 
James, Bawden, Montague; and for comments.) 



SECTION II. 

Perception and Imagination 

Note on the ' reflective observation ' of perception and imagination 
{of. Chapter II., p. 12). The discussion of perception introduces the 
important distinction between an immediate consciousness and the 
reflective observation of such a consciousness. Reflective observation 
is the after-consciousness of an earHer experience, the psychologist's 
awareness of an experience — his own or another's. To say that I am 
immediately conscious of the characters or relations which only after- 
reflection attributes to my experience is to commit what James calls 
the psychologist's fallacy. Yet, on the other hand, immediate and 
reflective observation may coincide. In any case, it is as allowable to 
classify an experience by taking account of the characters regularly 
attributed to it in after-reflection as to classify it by reference to 
physiological conditions. 

Bibliography. — G. T. Fechner, Elemente der Psychophysik, i860, 
Bd. II., XLIV. F. Galton, Inquiries into Human Faculty. W. James, 
op. cit., Vol. II., Chapter XVIII. O. Kulpe, Outline of Psychology, 
English translation, 1895, §§ 27, 28. W. Lay, Mental Imagery, Psychol. 
Review Monograph Supplejnent, 1898. G. H. Lewes, Principles of 
Success in Literature, Chapter III. Strieker, Studien iiber die Sprach- 
vorstellungen, 1880. J. Sully, The Human Mind, Vol. I., Chapter X. 
M. G. Caldwell, A Study of the Sense-Epithets of Shelley and Keats 
(Wellesley College Psychological Studies). Poet Lore, 1898, Vol. X., 
PP- 573 ff- 



284 



SECTION III. 

A. The Human Body from the Psychologist's 
Standpoint 

§ I. It is not the specific province of psychology to study the 
human body, yet the psychologist must possess an acquaintance 
with the structure and functions of the body in order to explain and 
to classify those facts about the conscious self which are the proper 
objects of his investigation. A formal definition of ' the body ' need 
not here be attempted. It may be described first in its relation 
to myself; second, in comparison with other objects. From the 
first point of view, my body is an object of which I am sensationally 
conscious; it is the object of which I am most persistently con- 
scious; and it is, finally, a medium of relation between me and 
other external objects. From the second standpoint, — that is, in 
comparison with other objects, — the body is an organism, a sys- 
tematic complex of structures and activities such that each is sub- 
ordinated to the whole. 

The function of the body as, so to speak, mid-term between self 
and external things is due to two fundamental characters: it is 
readily affected by environing objects and, in turn, it easily affects 
them. Though it consist, as in the case of the protozoon, of a 
single cell, that cell affects, and is affected by, its environment. 
The amoeba, for example, moves aside from an obstacle, attaches 
itself to a solid body, and unites these forms of reaction by pro- 
jecting parts of its body and closing them over food.* 

But though all living cells are fundamentally alike in function, 
yet with the development of the animal body there goes on in the 
cells a progressive differentiation both in structure and in function. 
The changes of especial importance to the psychologist are the 

* M. F. Washburn, "The Animal Mind," pp. 39-40. 
285 



286 Supplement to Chapter III. 

following : Certain structures, known as sense-organs, situated for 
the most part on the bodily surfaces, become specially adapted to 
excitation by the environment; other organs, bones and muscles, 
take over the essential function of motor reaction to the environ- 
ment; and connecting the two (though histologically closely re- 
lated to the sense-organs) is the group of structures known as 
the nervous system. 

I. THE MOTOR STRUCTURES OE THE BODY 

§ 2. For the purposes of the psychologist it is sufficient merely 
to name the muscles, masses of contractile tissue, penetrated by 
blood-vessels, most of them ending in tendons, fibrous cords which 
are connected with the more than two hundred hones of the body. 
The bones, moving on each other at the joints, form a peculiarly 
flexible framework. 

Motions of internal organs — for example, heart-beat and 
movements of the alimentary canal — are the contractions of the 
muscles composing these organs. 

II. THE CEREBRO-SPINAL NERVOUS SYSTEM 

§ 3. From this reference to the specifically motor and the defi- 
nitely sensory organs of the body, we turn to the closer study of 
the structure connecting the two. Rudimentary forms of such a 
connective system are found low in the biological scale, among the 
simpler (if not the simplest) of the metazoa. Beginning with the 
lowest of the vertebrates, we find' the essential features of a cerebro- 
spinal nervous system — a central system of nerve-centres con- 
nected on the one hand with all the sensory surfaces and, on the 
other hand, directly connected with all the skeletal muscles, and 
indirectly connected with the internal organs. (Besides the 
cerebro-spinal nervous system, the body contains both scattered 
'sporadic ganglia,' and a number of nerve-centres, loosely united, 
the so-called 'sympathetic nerve system.' These centres, which 
are partly ' self-directing,' partly excited through the central ner- 
vous system, control the activity of the internal organs, digestive, 
respiratory, and circulatory.) 



Appendix, Section III., §4 
a. Nerve-elements: Neurones 



287 



§ 4. The cerebro-spinal nervous system is made up of connected 
nerve-centres; and a nerve-centre is a tangled mass of neurones, 
or branching cells which are anatomically distinct. The structu- 
rally distinguishable parts of a typical neurone are the following: 




Fig. 6. — Motor cell of gray matter of cord. From human fetus. The asterisk 
(*) marks the axone; the other branches are dendrites. From W. H. Howell, 
"A Text-book of Physiology," Fig. 54 (after Lenhossek.) 

(i) the cell-body, a bit of protoplasm containing a nucleus; and 
(2) nerve-processes, prolonged from the cell-body, of two sorts, {a) 
the dendrites, broad in their origin from the cell-body and devious 
in their course, which give off intricately branching, ' antler-like ' 
processes beginning near the cell-body, and {h) the axone, a nar- 
row fibre, usually direct in its course. The axone is either a long 



288 Supplement to Chapter HI. 

fibre, enclosed in an albuminous covering (the medullary sheath), 
giving off few branches until it breaks up into a bunch of fibres at 
the end, or it is a short fibre "breaking up in a dendritic manner into 
a large number of fine branches." * As a whole, the neurone has 
been said to resemble "a bit of string frayed out at both ends and 
here and there along its course." f 

Neurones are embedded in a spongy substance, called neuroglia. 
Masses in which cell-bodies predominate are called ganglia and 
are grayish in color, because the fibres which they contain are with- 
out medullary sheath. Masses in which nerve fibres predominate 
are called 'nerves,' and look white. The nerve impulse is 
conducted, in the human body, at the rate of approximately 33 
meters (100 feet) per second, by the nerve fibres ; it spreads from 
the terminal fibres of the axone of one neurone to the contiguous 
dendrites — sometimes to the cell-body — of another. According 
to the direction in which the nerve impulse is conducted, nerves are 
distinguished as (i) afferent, or ingoing, nerves which convey in- 
ward the impulse communicated from some outer stimulus; and 
(2) efferent, or outgoing, nerves which convey the nerve excitation 
to a muscle. Midway between the two are found (3) the neurones 
of the nerve-centres of brain and spinal cord, whose function seems 
to be the redistribution, perhaps the modification, of the excitation 
conveyed by afferent nerves. Some psychologists hold that the 
function of redistribution belongs peculiarly to the cell-bodies.^ 

h. Nerve-centres 

I. The Spinal Cord 

§ 5. Aside from the sympathetic system, there are two main groups 
of nerve-centres ; that is, of neurones massed together, those of spinal 
cord and of brain. The spinal cord, enclosed in its bony sheath 
of linked vertebrae, contains fibres which run (i) inward from the 
surface of trunk and of limbs, (2) outward, and (3) up and down 

* L, F. Barker, "The Nervous System and its Constituent Neurones," 
p. 12, 

t E. L. Thorndike, "The Elements of Psychology," p. 126. 



Appendix, Section III., § 5 



289 



within the cord. The afferent (ingoing) fibres enter through the 
spinal ganglia, which lie inside the spinal column but outside the 
cord in the posterior nerve-roots. The efferent (outgoing) fibres 
are found in the anterior roots. Of the up-and-down fibres, 
some connect different levels of the 
cord, while others connect the cord 
with the brain. The outer por- 
tion of the cord is made up mainly 
of axones each in its medullary 
sheath ; the inner portion consists 
chiefly of cell-bodies and of den- 
drites, but contains also axones 
with and without medullary 
sheaths. 

When an excitation is trans- 
mitted by an afferent nerve to the 
spinal cord, it may either be im- 
mediately redistributed by the 
spinal nerve-centres to an efferent 
nerve, or it may be transmitted 
along one of the upward fibres to 
a redistributing centre in the brain. 
The immediate spinal reaction is 
unaccompanied by consciousness, 
a fact established by the experi- 
mental observation that uncon- 
scious movements of a limb, in 
response to stimulation of the skin, 
occur after such injury to the spinal cord as prevents transmission 
of excitation to the brain. The spinal cord is thus, first, a centre 
for unconscious reflex movements from cutaneous stimulation, 
and second, a transmitter of excitations to the brain. Many of 
the fibres running downward from the brain to the spinal cord 
cross from the right side of the brain to the left side of the cord 
(Figure 8) ; and consequently the stimulation of one side of the 
brain is followed by motion of the opposite side of the body. 




Fig. 7. — Schematic figure of the 
spinal cord. Posterior ganglion, x; 
efferent nerve, y; afferent nerve, z. 
From W. H. Howell, " A Text-book 
of Physiology," Fig. 62 (after 
Kolliker). 



290 



Supplement to Chapter III. 
2. The Brain 



1 



§ 6. It is not possible to give an accurate verbal description of 
the brain; and its complicated structure can be fully understood 
only if one trace its development from the lowest vertebrate form. 
For the present purposes of psychology the student should f amiliar- 




Fig. 8. — Schematic transverse section of the brain through the Rolandic 
region. S, Fissure of Sylvius; N.C. and AT.i. (parts of a corpus striatum) and 
O.T. (optic thalamus), interior ganglia of the brain; C, one of the crzira cerebri 
(bundles of up-and-down neurones); M, one side of the medulla oblongata; VII., 
the facial nerves. From James, "Psychology, Briefer Course," Fig. 43 (after 
Starr). 

ize himself with diagrams, or preferably with models of the brain, 
and should distinguish between (i) lower brain (medulla, cerebel- 
lum, pons, and crura, (2) interior brain (the basal nerve-centres 
enclosed within the hemispheres, N. C, N. L., and O. T. in 



Appendix, Section III., § 6 



291 



Figure 8), and (3) the hemispheres, or cortex. Lower brain and 
interior brain consist of nerve-centres, connected by transverse 
fibres, and penetrated also by upv^ard and downward fibres, con- 
necting them, as the diagram suggests, with the spinal centres and 
with the hemispheres. They therefore transmit to the hemi- 
spheres excitations origi- 
nated in lower portions of 
the body, and they are also 
centres for the redistribu- 
tion both of nervous im- 
pulses, transmitted by the 
spinal cord, and of excita- 
tions conducted to them 
directly by the facial nerves 
and by the nerves of the 
special senses. In one 
centre of the lower brain 
(the medulla) there are 
also automatic centres, 
masses of cells which coor- 
dinate excitations from the 
interior of the body and 
regulate such automatic 
movements as the heart- 
beat, breathing, and sneez- 
ing. (The two hemi- 
spheres, also, are connected 
with each other by transverse neurones.) 

It is a moot question whether sense-consciousness accompanies 
the functioning of these lower and interior centres. The proba- 
bility,* however, is that in the case of the lower vertebrates, with 
less developed hemispheres, the excitation of lower and of interior 
brain is accompanied by consciousness, and that, on the contrary, 
excitation of the hemispheres is necessary to human conscious- 
ness. It is certain that excitation of the hemispheres is the es- 
*H. Donaldson, American Journal of Psychology, Vol. IV. 




Fig. 9. — Schematic figure to illustrate re- 
flex and icieo-mctor movements. Adapted 
from W. James, " The Principles of Psychol- 
ogy," Fig. 4 (after Meynert). 



292 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



sential cerebral condition of memory and of foresight. The bodily 
movements characteristic of cerebral activity are, therefore, no 
longer the unconscious reflexes of the spinal cord nor even acts of 
which one has a bare sense-perception; they are deliberative acts 
performed with a memory of past results and an image of future 
happenings. It follows that the response to a particular stimulation 
is not, as in the case of a spinal reflex, inevitable and determined. 
We may illustrate this by a diagram (Figure 9) . The unconscious 
spinal reflex (a-b-f-g), following upon the touch of a hot sur- 
face, is the withdrawal of the hand. Suppose, however, that the 
stimulus conducted by the afferent nerve (a-b-c) is transmitted to 
the hemispheres instead of being at once redistributed in the spinal 
centres. The centre (e), corresponding with the sensation of 
warmth, is first stimulated, but the impulse is at once transmitted 
to other brain-centres (y and x) and the total cortical excitation 
is accompanied by the conscious reflection that a hot application 
wiU cure neuralgic pain. The efferent nerve (d), which is finally 
stimulated, in turn excites a muscle whose contraction checks the 
instinctive movement away from the hot surface. Thus the motor 
response (d-h-t), to the excitation transmitted to the hemispheres, is 
a firmer grasp of the heated object, whereas the instinctive spinal 
reflex (a-b-f-g) would have consisted in the withdrawal of the hand. 
The following table summarizes these distinctions of bodily activity 
and consciousness as associated with different nerve-centres : — 



Organ 
Spinal cord. 



Function 
\ Conduction, 
( Redistribution. 



Activity 

Cutaneous 

reflex. 



No conscious- 
ness. 



Lower brain. 



Conduction, 
Redistribution. 



Automatic. 



No conscious- 
ness. 



Interior brain. 



Conduction, 
Redistribution. 



Special-reflex. 



Sense-conscious- 
ness ( ?) 



Cerebral hemi- 
spheres 
(cortex). 



Redistribution. Deliberative. 



Perception, 
Memory, 
Thought, etc. 



Appendix, Section III., § 7 



293 



§ 7. It is possible to study, in even greater detail, the relation 
of the excitation of the cortex to different functions of con- 
sciousness. For this purpose, it is necessary to gain a clearer 
notion of the conformation of the hemispheres. It has been shown 
already that the immense expansion of each hemisphere results in a 
folding of its surface in upon itself. Each hemisphere thus con- 
sists of an irregular mass of folds, the convolutions, separated by 
deep gullies, the fissures. The most important of these appear 



p ROJIXA L 



Far.-Oc. 




te 



LOBE ^ 

^^ORJl LO^E 

Fig. 10. — Outer surface of the right hemisphere. From M. Foster, 
book of Physiology," Fig, 134. 



A Text- 



very early in the growth of each embryonic hemisphere, on its outer 
surface. They are the fissure of Sylvius, which starts from a point 
below and in front of the middle of each hemisphere (cf. Figure 9), 
and runs backward, curving upward at its termination; and the 
fissure of Rolando, which runs downward and forward, from the 
median, upper part of each hemisphere (Figure 9) to a point near 
to that where the fissure of Sylvius begins. These fissures and 
others form the basis of the ordinary division of the hemisphere 
into five areas, or lobes. Roughly speaking, the frontal lobe lies 
forward of the fissure of Rolando and above the fissure of Sylvius ; 
the parietal lobe lies back of the frontal, and also above the fissure 



294 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



of Sylvius; the occipital lobe lies behind the parietal, and is sepa- 
rated from it by a fissure which appears most definitely on the 
median side of the hemisphere; and the temporal lobe lies below 
the fissure of Sylvius and forward of the occipital lobe. (The 
fifth lobe, the 'island of Reil,' is folded in within the temporal and 
the parietal lobes, and is not represented in the diagram.) On the 
median surface of the hemisphere (cf. Figure lo), it is important 
to distinguish, first, the triangular area of the occipital lobe, called 



F. 'RolanSo 




Fig. II. — Median surface of the right hemisphere. From M. Foster, o/>. «7. 
Fig. 135- 

from its wedge shape the cuneus; second, the convolution along 
the upper edge, called 'marginal'; and finally, the curving con- 
volution, called the uncinate (or hippocampus) . 

The study of cortical areas is important to the psychologist only 
for the following reason: investigation has shown that the excita- 
tion of certain parts of the cortex is accompanied by definite forms 
of sense-consciousness and of bodily movement. There is much 
dispute, among the anatomists, about special features of cere- 
bral localization, but the following results may be accepted as 
practically assured : — 

The excitation of the occipital lobe, especially of that portion of 



Appendix, Section III., § 7 



295 



its median surface known as the cuneus (Figure 11), is the 
cortical 'centre' of the visual perception of the different colors 
and hues, and is the centre, also, of movements of the eye-muscles.* 




Fig. 12. — ingures representing the probable location of the chief motor and 
sensory areas of the cerebral hemispheres in man. A, outer surface. B, median 
surface. From W. H. Howell, " A Text-book of Physiology," Fig. 82 (taken from 
E. A, Schafer, "Text-book of Physiology," Fig. 340). 

Nerve-fibres connect the right halves of both retinae with this visual 
centre in the right hemisphere, and the left halves of both retinae 
with the left visual centre. 



* Cf. Donaldson, American Journal of Psychology, Vol. IV., p. 121 ; 
Flechsig, " Gehirn und Seele," 2d edition, 1896, p. 77; Nagel, " Handbuch 
der Physiologie des Menschen," Bd. IV. i, pp. 94 ff., esp. p. 99. 



296 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Page 



The area forward and back of the fissure of Rolando is admitted 
to be a centre of bodily movements — of all movements of trunk 
and limbs, and of such movements of eyes, tongues, nostrils, and 
ears as are indirectly brought about by mechanical stimuli. Many 
psychologists believe that the Rolandic area is the centre also of 
cutaneous sensation; but Schafer, supported by some others, 
holds that the median gyrus fornicatus is the centre of cutaneous 
sensation and the direct centre of the movements initiated by 
cutaneous stimuli.* 

The centre of hearing is the first temporal convolution ; the corti- 
cal smell-centre, and possibly the taste-centre, are in the uncinate 
convolution of the median temporal lobe. These probably are 
centres also for such movements of ear, nostrils, and tongue as are 
directly due to stimulation of the end-organs of hearing, smell, and 
taste. The following summary of the sensory centres in the 
hemispheres combines these data : — 



Areas 


Consciousness 


Bodily Movements 


Occipital lobe. 


Vision. 


Of eye muscles. 


Temporal lobe: 
Outer 


Hearing. 


Of the muscles: 
Of ear (?) 


Inner 


r Smell. 
[Taste (?) 


Of nostrils (?)" 
Of tongue (?) 


Gyrus fornicatus. 


Cutaneous 
sensation (?) 




Rolandic area. 


Cutaneous 
sensation (?) 


Of all muscles. 



§ 8. It has been held by some psychologists that an image is 
distinguished from a percept, not merely by the different degree 
and duration, but by the different locality of its cerebral excitation. 
Flechsig argues from the vagueness of some memory-images that 
they may occur when merely association-centres, not the sense- 

*Cf. E. A. Schafer, Text-hook of Physiology, pp. 766 ff. 



38] Appendix, Section III., §9 297 

centres, are excited,* whereas the sense-centres must, of course, 
be active in perception. James Ward bases a similar argument on 
the case of patients who are able to recall familiar objects, but 
totally unable to recognize them when they are seen. He con- 
cludes that the centres for percept and for image must differ, how- 
ever little, in locality. f But both these arguments are insufficient. 
The people who could recall and describe objects named to them 
may have had purely verbal images, and need not have visualized 
the objects at all. And every image, however 'vague,' contains 
sense-elements and must, therefore, be conditioned by the excitation 
of sense-centres. It 

in. THE SENSE-ORGANS AND THE PHYSIOLOGICAL CONDITIONS 
' OF SENSATION 

a. The Eye 

I. The Structure of the Eye 

§ 9. The lowest form, biologically, of end-organ sensitive to 
light stimulus is a pigment-spot on the skin of an animal as far 
down in the scale as the vol vox, an organism midway between uni- 
cellular and multicellular animals. § But there is nothing to show 
that the consciousness corresponding to these stimuli differs from 
that which follows on mechanical stimulation. Next in the scale 
of light-adapted organs is the faceted eye, found in some Crustacea 
and in insects, familiar to us in the fly and in the bee. It consists 
in a large number of little cone-shaped organs, each of which trans- 
mits only the ray of light which passes directly through it ; oblique 
rays are absorbed by the pigmented material with which these 
cones are surrounded. The result is a miniature 'stippled,' or 
mosaic, reproduction, of the field of vision, since each of the thou- 
sand cones transmits light from one point only. A third type of 
eye, found also in insects, is the ocellus — a small eye, consisting 

* " Gehirn und Seele," p. 60. 

t "Assimilation and Association," Mind, N.S., October, 1894. 

ft O. Kulpe, § T,2„ 6 ff. ; H. Donaldson, "The Growth of the Brain," p. 34. 

§ Washburn, op. cit., p. 122. 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Page 



mainly of lens, retina, and rods, and of use, it is supposed, in dark- 
ness and for near objects. There is, finally, the true eye, with its 
lens and its retina, found in crustaceans and in most vertebrates. 
§ lo. The human eye has already been described, but in insuffi- 
cient detail. It is a sphere, moved, in a bony cavity of the skull, 

by six muscles — up- 
ward, obliquely up- 
ward and inward, 
downward, obliquely 
downward and out- 
ward, outward and in- 
ward. Its three mem- 
branous layers or 
'coats' are (i) the out- 
ermost sclerotic mem- 
brane {Scl) completely 
covering the eyeball, 
whitish and opaque 
except in its fprward 
part, the transparent 
cornea {c) ; (2) the 
choroid membrane 
{Ch) , containing blood- 
vessels, muscular 
fibres, and color pig- 
ment, whose forward portion is the iris (/) ; (3) the retina {R) 
which surrounds the posterior three-fourths of the eyeball. These 
membranes enclose three transparent bodies : the aqueous humor, 
a very fluid substance behind the cornea ; second, and most impor- 
tant to vision, the double-convex crystalline lens (L), enclosed in 
an elastic capsule attached (by a circular ligament) to the choroid 
coat; and finally, the vitreous humor {VH) a jellylike substance, 
full of floating particles, which occupies more than two-thirds of 
the cavity of the eyeball and "gives it substance." Together, 
aqueous humor, crystalline lens and vitreous humor form a 
double-convex lens. 




Fig. 13. — Diagrammatic outline of a horizontal 
section of the eye. From M, Foster, op. cit., 
Fig. 139. . 



38] Appendix, Section III., § lo 299 

The eye is adapted by three sorts of muscular adjustment, for 
reaction to objects at different distances: (i) Convergence and 
divergence are movements of the eyeballs, by the eye -muscles, 
which facilitate vision of near and far objects. When the eyeballs 
are parallel, clear images of indefinitely distant objects, for ex- 
ample of the stars, are formed. As the eyeballs converge more 
and more, that is, as the fronts of the eyeballs roll together and 
the backs roll apart, rays of light from every point of a nearer object 
are brought together at corresponding points on the retina of both 
eyes, so that the two eyes act as one.* (2) Accommodation is a 
bodily process which changes the refractiveness of the lenses them- 
selves. Accommodation is due to the contraction of the ciliary 
muscle (C.P)., "a. muscle lying in the forward part of the choroid 
coat, outside the iris, composed in small part of circular fibres 
parallel to the circumference of the iris and in large part of fibres 
radiating from this edge of the iris." This muscle, contracting 
somewhat after the fashion in which a purse-string is pulled up, 
''draws the forward half of the choroid coat forward and inward, 
thus lessening the tension of the elastic capsule in which the crystal- 
line lens is swun^', and allowing the lens to bulge from front to 
back." f (3) The third of these muscular adjustments is the 
purely unconscious reflex movement by which the pupil, an opening 
in the iris of the eye, is enlarged or narrowed according to the 
distance of the object and the intensity of the light. There are 
great differences in these reflexes. The pupils of night-seeing 
animals — owls, for example — dilate far more widely in the 
night than the pupils of human eyes, and contract, in daylight, to 
a mere slit. 

To sum up the main features of this description: The diver- 
gent rays from each point of a relatively near object are (i) brought 
together on the foveae of both eyes by convergence ; are (2) bent 
more sharply by the bulging of the crystalline lens through ac- 
commodation, and are (3) kept, by contraction of the pupil, from 
striking on the edges of the crystalline lens and producing chro- 
matic effects. 

* Cf. Appendix, Section IV., § 9. f Cf . Appendix, Section IV., § 8. 



300 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Pages 



§ II. It has already appeared that the function of the lenses and 
muscles of the eye is the formation of clear images on the retina; 




Fig. 14. — Schematic diagram cf the structure of the human retina. From 
anterior (inside) to posterior (outside) of retina: I., Pigment layer; II., rod and 
cone layer; III., outer nuclear layer; IV., external plexiform layer; V., layer 
of horizontal cells; VI., layer of bipolar cells, inner nuclear; VII., layer of ama- 
crucial cells (without axones) ; VIII., inner plexiform layer; IX., ganglion cell 
layer; X., nerve fibre layer. Adapted from W. H. Howell, "A Text-book of 
Physiology," Fig. 143 (after Greeff). 



38-39] Appendix, Section III., § 12 301 

and the structure of this innermost coat of the eyeball must there- 
fore be described in slightly more detail. It is composed through- 
out most of its extent of ten layers ; a layer of pigment cells (I) ; 
the layer (II) containing the minute transparent structures, rods 
and cones, which are the only parts of the retina directly affected by 
light; several interconnected layers of branching neurones; and 
the layer (X) formed by nerve-fibres ramifying in all directions from 
the optic nerve {O.N. in Figure 13). This nerve pierces the scle- 
rotic and choroid membranes from the rear; and the part of the 
retina at which it enters (displacing other retinal elements) is, as 
experiments show,* unaffected by the light. Outward from this 
'blind spot,' in the centre of a colored yellow spot (the macula 
lutea), there is a little pit or depression (the fovea, f.c.) in which 
the retina has thinned so that light more directly affects the cones, 
which here appear in unusual numbers with few or no rods among 
them. The retinal excitation is transmitted by the optic nerve, 
to the occipital lobe of the cortex ; and the following fact, already 
mentioned, concerning the correspondence of retina to brain-cen- 
tres is important. When the branches of the optic nerve from 
right to left eyes meet (in what is called the optic chiasma), the 
fibres cross in such wise that fibres from the nasal side of the 
right retina and from the temporal side of the left retina are 
continued to the left brain hemisphere, whereas fibres from the 
temporal side of the right retina and from the nasal side of the left 
are continued to the right hemisphere. Thus, the two retinae — 
including the maculce, or places of clearest vision — are represented 
in both hemispheres. 

2. Phenomena and Theories of the Visual Consciousness 

(a) Color Theories 

§ 12. To this account of the structure of the eye must be added 
a brief statement of certain theories of retinal process which differ 
from the hypothesis adopted in Chapter III. It must be borne 
in mind that these color theories are, one and all, hypothetical 

* For experiments on the 'blind spot,' cf. Sanford, 113 and 114. 



302 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

descriptions of retinal processes which have so far eluded direct 
observation. Chronologically first is the theory independently for- 
mulated by Thomas Young and Hermann von Helmholtz. It 
holds that there are three retinal elements or processes whose 
excitation conditions three color sensations — red, green, and violet. 
It explains sensations of colorless light as due simply to the com- 
bination in equal degrees of these three color-processes. Evi- 
dently this is a reasonable explanation of the cases in which a 
mixture of ether-waves of all lengths conditions the consciousness 
of colorless light. The Young-Helmholtz theory also explains, 
in the following manner, the excitation of colorless light sensations 
through the mixture of only two color-stimuli: ether vibrations 
of a given rate tend to set up in the retina not only the processes 
specifically corresponding with them, but also those which cor- 
respond with proximate vibration numbers. So blue light excites 
the retinal process which conditions the sensation-quality green, 
as well as that which accompanies blue; and yellow light stimu- 
lates the processes for re(J as well as for yellow. Therefore the com- 
bination of two complementary color-stimuli produces the same 
effect, physiologically, as the combination of all the color-stimuK. 
The specific physical condition of the sensation-qualities of color- 
less light is thus such a mixture of ether- waves as will stimulate 
simultaneously and nearly equally all physiological color-processes. 

The conclusive objection, though not the only objection, to the 
Young-Helmholtz theory is the fact that it fails utterly to account 
for the four cases in which a sensation of colorless light follows 
upon a single color-stimulus. It is impossible to suppose that three 
color-processes are aroused when a single color-stimulus falls on 
the outer rim or on a small part of the retina, or when the color- 
stimulus is very faint. And, finally, the theory cannot possibly 
be reconciled with the facts of color-blindness. For in color- 
blindness one at least of the normal retinal processes is wanting, 
and there can therefore be no combination of three retinal processes. 

A far more satisfactory explanation is that of Hering. He holds 
that a sensational consciousness of color is physiologically due to 
the activity of one of two antagonistic processes of an inferred 



Processes 


Sensations of 


J Anabolic. 
1 Katabolic. 


Green. 
Red. 


'Anabolic. 
. Katabolic. 


Blue. 

Yellow. 



39-40] Appendix, Section III., § 12 303 

retinal substance. Of these substances, he believes that there are 
two, each capable of an anabolic, that is, assimilative or '■ building 
up' process, and of a katabolic, that is, destructive or 'tearing 
down' process. To these four processes correspond the sensations 
of red, yellow, green, blue, whose exact relation may be seen by 
the following summary : — 

Substances 
Red-green. 

Yellow-blue. 

So far Hering has explained simply our color sensations. To 
account for the colorless-light consciousness, he assumes another 
retinal substance with opposed processes : — 

Substance Processes Sensations of 

„„ . , , , [Anabolic. Black. 

White-black. JKatabolic. White. 

An equilibrium between the two processes occasions a sensation 
of middle gray ; and an unequal combination of the two processes 
excites sensations of light or dark gray. The white-black sub- 
stance is excited by every light-stimulus, and is more widely spread 
than the color-substances over the surface of the retina. 

With these presuppositions Hering explains as follows the vari- 
ous ways of exciting the consciousness of colorless light : When 
such consciousness is due to the combination of color-stimuli, 
antagonistic processes in the color-substances destroy each other 
by simultaneous action, and the white-black substance remains in 
activity. When, for example, blue and yellow light fall simultane- 
ously on the retina, the blue tends to set the blue-yellow substance 
into anabolic activity, whereas the yellow tends equally to stimu- 
late the katabolic activity of the blue-yellow substance. These 
opposite processes cancel each other; and so equihbrium is main- 
tained and the blue-yellow substance, equally stimulated in two 



304 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

opposite directions, remains inactive, whereas the white-black 
substance, as has been said, is always active. Excitation by white 
light, that is, excitation by ether-waves of all lengths amounts to 
excitation through the combination of two pairs of complementary 
color-stimuli, red and green, blue and yellow, and results therefore 
in the inactivity of both color-substances. 

In explanation of the colorless-light consciousness as conditioned 
by a single stimulus, Hering advances far beyond Helmholtz. He 
supposes (i) that sensations of colorless light arise when small 
extents of the retina are excited by a single color-stimulus, because 
the stimulation of such small extents of the red-green or of the 
blue-yellow substance is not sufficient to rouse it to activity, whereas 
the ever active white-black substance is exciteji even by a color- 
stimulus; (2) that the excitations in faint light are not intense 
enough to affect a color-substance, but do excite the sensitive white- 
black substance; (3) that stimulation of the retinal periphery by 
color-stimuli excites sensations of colorless light, because only the 
white-black substance is found on the outer zones of the retina. 
Hering teaches finally (4) that a color-stimulus excites a sensation 
of colorless light when the subject is color-blind, because the retina 
of a color-blind person lacks one or both color-substances so that 
the color-stimulus affects only the easily excited white-black sub- 
stance. Hering has certainly, therefore, furnished a plausible 
explanation for sensations of colorless light whether conditioned 
by a single stimulus or by a combination of stimuli. Grave ob- 
jections have, however, been brought against the Hering theory. 
The most important of them may be briefly stated: (i) It is 
highly improbable that an assimilative bodily process should con- 
dition consciousness. (2) It is inconsistent to suppose that 
opposite color-processes, simultaneously excited, balance each 
other, and result in an absence of color-consciousness, whereas the 
opposite processes of the black- white substance, if excited together, 
occasion the consciousness of gray.* (3) As a matter of fact, a 

* Accordingly contemporary upholders of the theory supplement it by 
G. E. Miiller's hypothesis that the consciousness of gray is due to exclu- 
sively cerebral conditions. 



39-40] Appendix, Section III., §§ 13-14 305 

mixture of red and green lights does not, as Hering implies, occa- 
sion colorless-light sensation. On the contrary, the color-stimulus 
which, mixed with red light, produces a colorless-light sensation, 
is blue-green. This shows that the red and green which are psy- 
chically elemental are not physiologically antagonistic. 

The theory set forth in Chapter III. is that of Mrs. C. L. 
Franklin, which is in agreement with that of von Kries in the 
fundamental teaching that the functioning of retinal rods has to 
do with the excitation of colorless-light sensations. In the opin- 
ion of the writer it meets the objections to the Helmholtz and to 
the Hering theories, and has also certain independent advan- 
tages. Three amplifications of our earlier statement of the Frank- 
lin theory should here be made. 

§ 13. It should be stated first of all, in more detail, how on this 
theory the partial decomposition of the cone substance is brought 
about. Each molecule of the cone substance is, in fact, conceived 
as consisting of four parts, of which each is fitted to vibrate to one 
only of the color-stimuli — red, yellow, green, and blue light. There- 
fore a colored light is regarded as partially decomposing the cone sub- 
stance by 'shaking out' one of the atoms from each of its molecules. 

It will be observed, also, that the von Kries and Franklin theories 
closely correspond with well-known facts concerning the distribu- 
tion and the function of the retinal rods. For the rods, which (on 
this theory) are organs of such colorless-light consciousness as is 
due to single stimulation, are found on the periphery of the outer 
zones of the retina, and are known by experimental observation to 
be readily affected in faint light. (Mrs. Franklin supposes that 
the visual purple, a retinal substance actually observed on the rods, 
reenforces faint light vision by absorbing a large amount of the 
light which usually passes entirely through the transparent rods 
and cones.) 

§ 14. In the third place, these theories accord notably well with 
certain facts summarized under the name of the Purkinje phenom- 
enon. These facts are the following: (i) Green and blue seen in 
faint light have a greater intensity than red and yellow.* On a 

* For experiment, cf. Sanford, 142. 



3o6 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

summer evening, for example, the green of the marshes may be 
seen against the blue of the sea long after the goldenrod and tansy 
have lost their color and after the old red farm-house has turned 
gray. (2) If two grays — one produced by the mixture of red and 
blue-green lights, the other by the mixture of blue and yellow 
lights — be precisely matched in a bright light, the first of the 
two will be seen as brighter than the other when both are observed 
in faint light. Both facts give support to the theory that the rods, 
and consequently the visual purple which lies on the rods, have 
to do with colorless light-vision. For all forms of the Purkinje 
phenomenon appear only in faint illumination, and the visual 
purple is active only in faint light; moreover, the Purkinje phe- 
nomenon consists in the intensification of green and secondarily 
of blue lights, and the visual purple absorbs green rays — and, 
after green, blue rays — most readily ; finally, the Purkinje phe- 
nomenon, as has been found,* does not occur when the foveae of 
normal and partially color-blind eyes are excited ; that is to say, it 
does not occur by excitation of the region of the retina which 
lacks visual purple and rods. 

§ 15. The von Kries and Franklin theories, finally, offer a plau- 
sible explanation of color-blindness. The facts, though not undis- 
puted, may be summarized as follows: There are two general 
classes of color-blindness, partial and total. Red-blindness (in 
which the spectrum order of colors appears as gray, yellow, blue) 
and green blindness (in which the order is yellow, gray, blue) are 
the most common form of dichromasia, or partial color-blindness; 
but there are also a few alleged cases of yellow-blue blindness, in 
which the patient sees grays, reds, and greens, but no blues and 
yellows. There are two forms of achromasia, or total color- 
blindness: in one, probably retinal in origin, the fovea is totally 
blind, and there are accompanying defects of vision ; in the second 
form of achromasia, very likely due to cerebral defects, the fovea 
is not totally blind, and there are no defects of vision other than 

* Von Kries u. Nagel, Ztsch. f. Psych, u. Physiol, d. Sinnesorgane, Vol. 
XXIII., p. 161, discussed by C. L. Franklin, Psychological Review, Vol. 
VII., p. 600. 



39-40] Appendix, Section III., § 15 307 

the color-blindness. These facts absolutely contradict the Helm- 
holtz theory ; are with difficulty harmonized with the Hering theory ; 
support, or at least do not oppose, a theory of the general type of 
the Franklin hypothesis. 

The conformity of the Franklin theory with these facts may best 
be shown by a somewhat more detailed discussion of red and green 
blindness. The red-green blind person has a normal vision of blue 
and of yellow, but confuses red and green objects with each other. 
Dalton, for example, could not see his scarlet academic gown as it 
lay on the grass ; and another red-green blind man could not dis- 
tinguish one branch, turned scarlet, of a maple tree from the rest 
of the tree which was still green. In these cases Hering assumed 
that both objects were seen as gray, and explained the color-blind- 
ness as due to the total lack in the retina of the green-red substance 
and the ceaseless functioning of the white-black substance. But 
this explanation does not cover the distinction, experimentally dis- 
covered, between two sorts of red-green blindness. In that of 
the first type, the red is matched with gray and the green with 
yellow; for example, color-blind subjects examined by the Holm- 
gren test, that is, required to sort a lot of worsted skeins of differ- 
ent color and hue,* throw the unmixed red skein into the pile of 
the grays and the green into the pile of the yellows. In color- 
blindness of the second type, the red is matched with yellow and 
the green with gray. But according to the Hering theory there 
is no reason to suppose that, because the red-green substance is 
lacking from the retina, red or green light should affect the blue- 
yellow substance. t The Franklin theory certainly has a negative 
advantage in that it does not meet this difficulty. Positively, it 
offers a plausible explanation of the two forms of red-green blind- 
ness by the teaching that color molecules in their primitive form 
contain two, not four, vibrating parts or atoms, one which excites 
the sensation of blue and one which excites the sensation of yellow, 

*For experiment, cf. Sanford, 135. 

fMore recently, Hering explains the distinctions in red-green blindness 
as due to individual differences in the macula lutea, or yellow spot. For 
comment on the inadequacy of this view, cf. C. L. FranlcHn, Psychologi- 
cal Review, VI., p. 82. 



3o8 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

and that this yellow-exciting part is later differentiated into the 
parts which excite sensations of red and of green. This hypoth- 
esis explains both the greater commonness of red-green blindness, 
since organs and functions latest acquired are always first lost, 
and the tendency of red and green light to set in vibration the 
yellow-exciting atom. 

Bibliography. — On color -theories : H. L. F. von Helmholtz, Hand- 
buch der physiologischen Optik, 1896, esp. §§ 19, 20, 23. E, Hering, 
Zur Lehre vom Lichtsinne, 1874; and Grundzuge der Lehre vom Licht- 
sinn, I. II., 1905, 1907. G. E. Miiller, Zur Psychophysik der Gesichts- 
empfindungen (reprint from Zeitschrift filr Psychol, u. Physiol, der 
Sinnesorgane, 1897). C. L. Franklin, Mind, 1893, pp. 472 if.; The 
Functions of the Rods of the Retina, Psychol. Review, Vol. III., pp. 71 ff . ; 
J. von Kries, Zeitschrift, IX., pp. 82 ff., and XV., pp. 247 ff.; Abhand- 
lungen, 1897; Die Gesichtsempfindungen, in Nagel's Handbuch der 
Physiologie des Menschen, Bd. III., pp. 109 ff. J. W. Baird, The Color 
Sensitivity of the Peripheral Retina, 1905. 

For summary (to 1901) : M. W. Calkins, An Introduction to Psychol- 
ogy, pp. 464-473, with citations. 

On color-blindness, add: W. Nagel, Der Diagnose der praktisch 
wichtigen Storungen des Farbensinns, 1899. 

(b) Contrast Phenomena 

§ 16. Brief reference has been made in the text of Chapter III. 
to the phenomena of color and light contrast. A little more must 
be said of simultaneous contrast. There are many everyday illus- 
trations of it ; for example, the decided blue of the shadows on a 
sun-lighted field of snow. There are also many experimental 
verifications of the phenomenon.* The simplest is the examina- 
tion of squares or rings of gray, on colored surfaces, through a 
tissue paper covering, which obscures the outline of the gray fig- 
ures ; these gray figures will then appear in the color complemen- 
tary to the background, yellow on a blue background, red on bluish 
green, and so on. 

*For experiments, cf. Sanford, 152, b, c, d; Seashore, Chapter II.; Titch- 
ener, § 10, especially Exp. (i), (2), (3). 



4o-4i] Appendix, Section III., § 16 309 

An exact explanation of this curious phenomenon has never 
been given, but it has been estabhshed by Hering, against the 
teaching of Helmholtz, that the explanation, whatever it is, of 
simultaneous contrast, must be physiological in its nature. Helm- 
holtz taught that simultaneous contrast is no more nor less than 
a psychological illusion. According to his theory, we 'really' 
see, not a complementary contrast-color, but the physically excited, 
actual gray figure, though we fallaciously suppose that this gray 
is yellow, if it lies on a blue background, or green, if it is seen 
against purple. The explanation, for so widespread an illusion, is 
found in the admitted fact that people are accustomed to look at 
familiar, colored objects through a complementary colored medium 
which makes them seem gray. For example, we see a red brick 
wall through the green lights of a hall door; the wall seems gray, 
but we still think of it as red. Or again, the blue gown looks gray 
in the yellow gaslight, but is known to be blue. The gray figures 
of the simultaneous contrast experiences are thus, Helmholtz holds, 
inferred — not actually seen — to be of a color complementary to 
that of the background. But opposed to this theory of Helmholtz 
are insurmountable obstacles- In the first place, it directly con- 
tradicts our introspection. We not only do not naturally see 
objects, in simultaneous contrast, as gray, but in most cases we can- 
not force ourselves to do so; the gray ring on the colored back- 
ground is immediately, and inevitably, blue or yellow or red. 
It is highly improbable, in the second place, that our comparatively 
infrequent and unnoticed experiences of colored objects, in light 
of a complementary color, should have formed in us such a 
habit of inference as this theory supposes. The Helmholtz 
theory is disproved, finally, by direct and unambiguous experi- 
ments.* 

It is fair to conclude, with Hering, that simultaneous contrast 
is physiologically conditioned ; in other words, that when one part 
of the retina is directly excited by a colored light, retinal processes 
which condition a complementary color are set up in the neighbor- 
ing retinal regions. This undoubted fact can be stated in terms 

* For experiments, cf. Sanford, 155, a and h ; 156, a and h. 



310 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Pages 



of any color-theory, but it has never been, in any strict sense, ex- 
plained, or accounted for. 

Bibliography, — On successive contrast: of. E. Hering, Zur Lehre 
von Lichtsinne, esp. § i8. 

On simultaneous contrast: H. von Helmholtz, Handbuch der Physio- 
logischen Optik, 2te Aufi., § 24. E. Hering, Beitrag zur Lehre vom 
Simultan-Kontrast, Zeitschr. f. Psych, u. Physiol, d. Sinnesorgane, I., 
18. C. L. Franklin, in Mind, N.S., II., 1893. 

b. The Ear 

I. The Structure of the Ear 

§ 17. The simple structure from which, biologically speaking, 
the ear seems to be developed, is a sac (the so-called otocyst or 




Fig. 15. — Semi-diagrammatic section through the right ear. B, one semicircu- 
lar canal; S, cochlea; Vi, Scala vestibuli; Ft, Scala tympani. For meaning of 
other symbols, see text. From H. N. Martin, "The Human Body," Fig. 143 
(after Czermak). 

statocyst) enclosed in the skin, filled with liquid, always containing 
one or more calcareous bodies and often containing, also, hairs 



45-46] 



Appendix^ Section III., § i8 



311 



varied in length. These structures are found in certain of the 
lower invertebrates — for example, in jellyfish, in Crustacea, and, 
in insects — and in the lower vertebrates. It is probable, however, 
or at least very possible, that these are organs not of hearing, but of 
pressure consciousness, and that the sensations which accompany 
the excitation of these organs do not qualitatively differ from sen- 
sations due to mechanical stimulation. The vibration of air or 
water striking on these organs then acts merely as a jar. It will 
appear that one part of the human ear has probably the same 
function. 

§ 18. The human ear has three rudely distinguished divisions: 
the outer ear, inner ear, and middle ear. The outer ear consists 
in the pinna or concha (M) opening 
into a hollow tube, the external 
meatus (G) ; and this tube is closed 
by a surface, the tympanic mem- 
brane ( T) . This is thrown into vibra- 
tion by the motion of air-particles, 
and its motion is transmitted to a 
series of three bones, called, from 
their shape, malleus, incus, and 
stapes (that is, hammer, anvil, and 
stirrup) . These bones lie within the 
drum or middle ear (P), a hollow in 
the temporal bone from which the 
Eustachian tube (R) leads down- 
ward to the pharynx. The middle 
ear communicates by two foramina, or windows, with the inner ear, 
a complex bony tube embedded in the spongy part of the tem- 
poral bone of the skull. The inner ear has three main divisions, 
and these must be described in some detail. They are (i) a 
middle chamber, the vestibule (F), which is an irregularly rounded 
envelope containing two small membranous bags, or sacs, the sac- 
cule and the utricle; (2) the three semicircular canals, at right 
angles to each other — one horizontal, one running forward and 
back, one running right to left, all of them opening into the utricle. 




Fig. 16. — Schematic figure of 
the semicircular canals (to the 
right of the diagram). Utricle, 
u; saccule, s; cochlea, c. From 
J. R. Angell " Psychology," Fig. 
44 (after McKendrick and Snod- 
grass). 



312 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Pages 



Each bony canal contains a membranous tube, of the same general 
shape yet more nearly completing a circle, and each tube ends in a 
dilation, or ampulla, opening into the vestibule. Each sac of the 




Fig. 17. — A transverse section of a circle of the cochlea. Org. C, organ of 
Corti; w.^., tectorial membrane. For meaning of other symbols, see text. From 
M. Foster, "A Textbook of Physiology," Fig. 180. 

vestibule and each membranous canal is surrounded by a liquid, 
the perilymph, and filled with a liquid, the endolymph. A branch 
of the auditory nerve penetrates each of these ampullae and the 
vestibule as well, ending in cells from which hairs project ; and in 



45-46] Appendix, Section III., § 19 313 

the vestibule, at least, there are small, hard substances, the ear 
stones, or otoliths. The essential feature of the apparatus is its 
extreme sensitiveness to changes of bodily position. The slightest 
movement which tends to unbalance the body must alter the 
position of the semicircular canals, and thus put in motion the 
endolymph. This movement, with or without the additional 
pressure of an otolith, bends the hairs of the ampullae and stimu- 
lates the vestibular section of the acoustic nerve, and this excitation 
reaches the cerebellum, which is the subcortial nerve-centre for 
the movements affecting bodily equilibrium. Actual experiments 
show the connection of these organs with the preservation of bal- 
ance. Animals deprived either of cerebellum or of semicircular 
canals stagger and fall about in an unbalanced and helpless way; 
and deaf people whose semicircular canals are injured cannot pre- 
serve their equilibrium if they are blindfolded and therefore unable to 
regulate their movements by the visual perceptions of bodily position. 

As so far described, the ear, like the otocyst, seems an organ 
adapted rather for excitation of pressure sensations, due to change 
of position, than for the excitation of the auditory consciousness. 
Auditory consciousness results, in all probability, from processes 
excited in (3) the cochlea, a bony spiral of two and one-half coils 
around an axis. From this axis projects a bony shelf, the lamina 
spiralis {Lam. sp. in Figure 17), which decreases in width toward 
the apex of the cochlea and ends in the basilar membrane (m.b.). 
Together, bone and membrane divide each spiral into two winding 
half -coils, the scala tympani (Sc.T.) and the scala vestibuli (Sc.V.). 
The former opens by the round foramen into the middle ear; the 
latter is connected with the vestibule. Each contains a liquid, the 
perilymph. A third division, the cochlear canal, or scala media 
(C.Chl.), is partitioned off by a membrane (m.R.) from the scala 
vestibuli. The cochlear canal forms the membranous cochlea and 
contains a liquid, the endolymph, whose vibrations, as will appear, 
excite the auditory end-organs. 

§ 19. The basilar membrane consists of cross-fibres, radially 
stretched strings varying in length from bottom to top, base to 
apex, of the cochlea — the longest strings near the top. Some of 



314 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Pages 



these fibres support the inner and the outer rods of Corti, which 
number respectively about six thousand and about four thousand. 
These are tiny membranous rods increasing in size from base to 
apex of the cochlea and leaned against each other to form an 
arch. The cochlear branch of the auditory nerve runs through 




Fig. i8. — Diagrammatic view of the organ of Corti and the accessory strvictures. 
A, inner rods of Corti; B, outer rods of Corti; C, tunnel of Corti; D, basilar 
membrane; E, single row of inner hair cells; 6 ,6', 6", rows of outer hair cells; 
7, 7', supporting cells of Deiters. (There are supporting cells beneath the inner 
hair cells, also.) The hairs of the inner cells are seen projecting through the 
meshes of the reticulate membrane. From W. H. Howell, " A Text-book of 
Physiology," Fig. 162 (after Testut). 

the whole length of the lamina spiralis, and terminates in hair-cells 
which lean against the rods of Corti. Hairlike filaments grow up- 
ward from these cells.* Just above, and apparently projecting 
from the edge of the lamina spiralis, is another delicate mem- 
brane, the tectorial membrane {m.t., in Fig. i7).t 

* These 'hairs' extend through minute openings in a thin membrane, the 
reticulate membrane {R) which extends in both directions from the summit 
of the arch formed by the rods of Corti. 

t Some physiologists believe that the tectorial membrane normally lies 



45-46] Appendix, Section ///., § 20 315 

It is impossible to state with certainty the function of all these 
structures in hearing. It used to be thought that the rods of Corti 
play the part in our ears of strings in a piano, vibrating because of 
their differing length and span with air- waves of different rates. 
Several arguments, however, tell strongly against this view. The 
rods are neither sufficient in number, nor sufficiently varied in 
size, to serve this purpose ; they are not found in the auditory end- 
organs of birds whose ability to discriminate pitches can hardly 
be doubted; and finally, they are not directly connected with the 
fibres of the auditory nerve, which terminate, as has been said, in 
the hair-cells of the basilar membrane. The following is a more 
probable, though by no means a definitely justified, account of the 
function of these structures. It is based on the general assump- 
tions of the Helmholtz theory : When certain fibres of the basilar 
membrane are thrown into sympathetic vibration, the rods of 
Corti are moved upward, and with them hair-cells lying on their 
sides. The filaments projecting from these hair-cells are, thus, 
pushed against the tectorial membrane and the downward reaction 
from this contact excites the auditory nerve-endings in the hair-cells. 

2. Phenomena and Theories of the Auditory Consciousness 

(a) Beats and Combination Tones 

§ 20. A noticeable feature of the auditory consciousness excited 
by the simultaneous vibration of two sounding bodies is the occur- 
rence of beats, swift and regular alternations of loud and weak 
sound. Beats are occasioned by a combination of pendular air- 
waves whose vibration numbers are near each other. Such air- 
waves ''reenforce the vibration of air particles which they affect 
so long as their phases are alike, " but when one of these air-waves 
by itself would set the air particle vibrating in one direction while 
the other would affect the air particle in the opposite way, the two 
counteract each other; and at a given moment the air particle will 
be held in equilibrium so that it will not vibrate at all. Professor 
Myers distinguishes "four stages" in the beating of two tones 

free in the endolymph. Cf. Howeil, " Text-book of Physiology," 1906, 
p. 368, with citation. 



3i6 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

according as a tone of, say, 256 vibrations beats (i) with a tone of 
fewer than 264 vibrations, (2) with a tone of 264 to 284 vibrations, 
(3) with a tone of 284 to about 300 vibrations, and (4) with a still 
higher tone. ''In the first stage," he says, the beats "have a 
surging, in the second a thrusting, and in the third a rattling char- 
acter; finally they fuse and pass into a stage where only rough- 
ness remains, beyond which they completely disappear."* Helm- 
holtz attributed disagreeable auditory combinations of pitch, or 
dissonances, to the occurrence of beats. 

Simultaneous pendular vibrations, not too closely alike, produce 
so-called combination tones of two sorts — difference tones and 
summation tones. In the first case, the attentive listener hears not 
merely two fundamental tones, but a sound whose vibration number 
equals their difference, sometimes also a second difference tone 
whose vibration number is the difference between the lower primary 
and the first difference tone, and sometimes even lower difference 
tones. In the second case, but with more difficulty, the practised 
listener hears a sound whose vibration number is the sum of the 
two fundamentals. Combination tones are sometimes 'objec- 
tive ' ; that is, they are due to external air-waves, but more often 
they are ' subjective,' that is, due to conditions within the ear. In- 
deed, difference tones must always be in this sense subjective, unless 
produced by some secondary vibration of the sounding body. It 
is likely that combination tones are due to the vibrations of the 
tympanic membrane — perhaps also to the vibrations of the mem- 
brane of the fenestra rotunda. f 

{h) Theories of Hearing 

§ 21. Certain alternatives proposed by contemporary psycholo- 
gists to the Helmholtz theory should briefly be named. In criti- 
cism of the theory it is urged, first, that the basilar membrane fibres 
are not capable of vibrating so freely as the theory requires; and 

* C. S. Myers, " A Text-book of Experimental Psychology," Chapter III,, 
p. 39. For experiments, cf. Sanford, 79-81; Titchener, §§ 13, 14. 

t Cf. Myers, op. ciL, pp. 43 ff. For experiments, cf. Sanford, 82; Titch- 
ener, § 15. 



45-46] Appendix, Section III., § 21 317 

second, that their variations in length — only 0.04 to 0.49 between 
the longest and the shortest of the 24,000 fibres — is too slight to 
permit vibrations ranging from 15 to more than 20,000 per second. 
In lieu of the Helmholtz hypothesis, and to avoid these difl&culties, 
the following theories, among others, have been advanced : — 

(i) The hypothesis of Rutherford (the so-called telephone theory) 
regards the cochlea merely as a transmitting instrument, and holds 
that the special characters of a sound sensation have purely cere- 
bral explanation. 

(2) The theory of Ewald is based on experiments with elastic 
membranes, some of them of minute size and of great delicacy. 
Ewald found that such a membrane vibrates throughout its length 
at each stimulation and that, examined under a microscope, it 
presents the picture of a series of waves, visible as 'dark, trans- 
verse streaks.' These sound-pictures, as Ewald calls them, vary, 
that is, the crests of the waves vary in their interval for each tone ; 
and Ewald supposes that, at these intervals, hair-cells and nerve- 
fibres are stimulated. 

(3) The theory of Max Meyer is not easily stated in abbreviated 
form. He supposes that successive sound waves, of a given vibra- 
tion number, travelling up the scala vestibuli, press down the basilar 
membrane, and that pitch is due to the number per second of these 
downward pressures, and loudness to the extent of basilar mem- 
brane, and thus to the number of nerve terminations, excited. 

The first of these theories is rather a confession of ignorance 
than a positive hypothesis. The objection to them all is that they 
fail to take account of the very elaborate differentiation of struc- 
tures in the organ of Corti.* Yet both the Ewald and the Meyer 
hypotheses are worthy of further study. 

Bibliography. — On theories of hearing: Rutherford, Report to 
British Association for the Advancement of Science, 1886. K. Ewald, 
Zur Physiologie des Labyrinths, Archiv filr die gesammte Physiol., 1899, 
LXXVL, pp. 147 ff.; 1903, XCIII., pp. 485 ff. Max Meyer, An Intro- 
duction to the Mechanics of the Inner Ear, Univ. of Missouri Studies, 

* Cf . M'Kendrick in E. A. Schafer, "Text-book of Physiology," pp. 
1192, 1194. 



3i8 Supplement to Chapter III. [Pages 

Scientific Series^ 1907, H-j i (cf- Zeitschrift, 1898, XVI.) • H. L. F. von 
Helmholtz, Sensations of Tone, transl. by A. J. Ellis, 1895. C. 
Stumpf, Tonpsychologie, Bd. I., 1883, Bd. II., 1890. K. L. Schafer, 
Der Gehorsinn, in Nagel's Handbuch der Physiologic der Menschen, 
Bd. III. ; J. G. M'Kendrick, in E. A. Schafer's Text-book of Physiology, 
Vol. II., pp. iiypff. 

(c) The Qualities of Pitch 

§ 22. The hypothesis that there are as many elemental qualities 
of pitch as there are distinguishable qualities in an octave is sug- 
gested by McDougall, and supported by the following considera- 
tions: "(i) The analogy of the other senses, in vi^hich . . . the 
elementary qualities are few, renders improbable the assumption 
of a very large number in the case of hearing. (2) We know that 
it is impossible for some ears to analyze complex tones or clangs 
which are easily analyzed by others, and that even a well-trained ear 
may find difficulty in analyzing the complex form of a tone and 
its octave or first overtone. (3) Pure tones are not merely more 
or less different in pitch; some that are of very different pitches 
have nevertheless a great resemblance ; . . . The first overtone 
or octave of any tone differs from it, as regards pitch, more than 
any of the intermediate tones of the scale, and yet is, in another 
indefinable fashion, more like it, so much like it that even a trained 
ear may mistake a tone for its first overtone. This fact suggests 
that each pure tone is a fusion of at least two elementary qualities, 
one of which is common to it and all its upper and lower octaves, 
another which is peculiar to it and . . . constitutes its pitch. 
(4) If each distinguishable tone were an elementary quality, we 
should expect to find that when the air is made to vibrate at a 
steadily increasing rate, as when a violinist runs his finger up the 
bowed string ... the pitch would rise by a series of steps from 
one elementary quality to another; but this is not the case; the 
transition is perfectly smooth and continuous. . . . We are there- 
fore driven to believe that the so-called simple tones are . . . com- 
plexes, and we have no certain guidance as to the number of 
elementary qualities by the fusions of which all the tones are pro- 



41-42] Appendix, Section III., § 23 319 

duced. . . . Perhaps the most satisfactory view, if the physical 
mechanism of the internal ear can be shown to admit of its adop- 
tion, is that all the elementary qualities are contained in a single 
octave, which might be likened to the complete color-series, and 
that the differences of* pitch that distinguish the same qualities in 
different octaves are not properly differences of quality, depending 
upon specific differences of the psycho-physical processes, but are 
rather of the same order as differences of extensity or voluminous- 
ness in the case of visual, tactual, or temperature sensations, and 
are due to differences in the number of sensory neurones excited, 
the deep pitch (the voluminous) being due to simultaneous stimu- 
lation of many neurones, high pitch to stimulation of few."* 
The physiological assumption of this theory is not, on a priori 
grounds, incompatible with any one of the theories of tone. 

c. End-organs of Taste and of Smell 

§ 23. Evidently, the ability to respond to the chemical stimulus 
of food is at least as potent a factor in the preservation and de- 
velopment of animal life as the sensitiveness to mechanical stimu- 
lation from external objects. As a matter of fact, certain unicellu- 
lar animals, amoebas and many metazoa of simple form, respond 
by a special reaction to chemical stimulation. A hydra, for ex- 
ample, always avoids mechanical objects, but seizes on food with 
its tentacles. I We must guard ourselves, however, from attributing 
either taste or smell, as we know them, to animals who have no 
trace of distinct taste and smell end-organs and who give no evi- 
dence of reacting in different fashion to liquid and to gaseous 
stimulus. Such differentiated organs and reactions are not found 
in animals lower in the scale than insects, and are lacking in many 
of the lower vertebrates. If The comparative psychologists give 
the name 'chemical sensations' to the simple consciousness which 
may be supposed to accompany the undifferentiated reactions to 
chemical stimuli. 

* "Physiological Psychology," by W. McDougall, pp. 72-73. 

t Washburn, p. 67. ft Washburn, op. cit., 86-87; 101-102. 



320 



Supplement to Chapter III. 



[Pages 



§ 24. In the human body the end-organs both of smell and of 
taste are structurally similar to those of contact, though they occur 
neither on the outer or joint surfaces nor in the muscles, but in the 
epithelial linings of nose and throat cavities. The end-organs 
of smell are situated in the upper part of -the nose. The nasal 

cavities are divided, 
one from another, 
by a wall or septum, 
of bone and carti- 
lage ; and the bony 
part of each nostril 
is partly divided 
within itself by the 
three turbinate 
bones. The lower 
bony surfaces of 
each nostril are cov- 
ered with a pink 
mucous membrane. 
The olfactory mem- 
brane, containing 
the smell end-or- 




gans, covers a very 
small area (about 
250 mm., that is, 
less than a square 



Fig. 19. — Schematic figure of the interior of the 
left nostril. S represents the septum, or partition 
between the nostrils as artificially turned upward. The 
shaded portion represents the olfactory membrane. 
From W. Nagel, "Handbuch der Physiologie des Men- ij^^-j-^") on the Seotum 
schen " Fig. 106 (after V. Brunn, taken from Zwaarde- 
maker," Physiologie des Geruchs.") and on the upper 

turbinate bone in 
the very peak of the nose. Olfactory particles, naturally rising or 
sniffed into the nose, reach the olfactory membrane only by 
diffusion.* 

Two facts experimentally observed seem to show that the end- 
organs of smell are of differentiated structure, and thus fitted to 
respond, some to one olfactory stimulus, some to another. These 
* For experiment, cf. Sanford, 57, 58; Titchener, § 28. 



47-48] Appendix, Section III., § 25 321 

facts are (i) partial anosmia, or permanent insensibility to some 
smells, not to all, an infrequent but well-established experience; 
and (2) the normal effect of fatigue. A person, for example, 
whose end-organs of smell have been fatigued by continuously 
smelling camphor, can smell creosote as well as ever, almond but 
faintly, and turpentine not at all. If smell end-organs were of one 
type only, all would be alike fatigued, and complete insensibility 
would be the result.* We have, however, no list of elemental 
smell qualities by which to test in an exact way the differentiation 
of smell end-organs. Zwaardemaker has, to be sure, proposed a 
classification on the basis of that of Linnaeus, into ethereal, 
aromatic, balsamic, amber-musk, alliaceous, burning, hircine, re- 
pulsive, and nauseating smells. f Obviously, however, this is no 
list of elemental qualities, but an empirical grouping of complex 
odors. 

The olfactory nerve leads from the smell end-organs in the peak 
of the nostril to the olfactory lobe, originally a projection from the 
hemispheres, but, in the adult brain, lying on the lower surface of 
the frontal lobe. From the olfactory lobe, nerve-fibres lead to the 
median surface of the temporal lobe. The olfactory lobes and 
tracts are much more developed in other vertebrate brains than 
in the human brain: and it will be remembered that the sense 
of smell, in the higher vertebrate animals, though perhaps less dif- 
ferentiated, is far keener than ours. 

§ 25. The end-organs of taste are situated near the entrance 
to the alimentary canal, within the papillae or folds formed by 
the membranous covering of the tongue and the forward part of 
the palate. Two kinds of papillae have to do with taste excita- 
tion : large circumvallate papillae, like castles surrounded by moats, 
found mainly near the root of the tongue ; and elongated fungiform 
papillae, visible as red dots on the forward and middle part of the 
tongue. All the circumvallate papillae and some of the fungi- 
form papillae carry taste-buds, minute globular bodies containing 

* For experiment, cf. Sanford, 59; Titchener, § 29. 

t H. Zwaardemaker, "Die Physiologic des Geruchs," pp. 233-235. 



322 



Supplement to Chapter III, 



[Pages 



certain rod-cells, among which nerve-fibres end.* These taste- 
buds are end-organs of taste; but are not as yet proved to be 




6 ■ & 

Fig. 20. — Section through the circumvallate papilla of a calf, greatly enlarged. 
Taste-bud, a; nerve-endings, h. From Th. W. Englemann, Fig. 270, in Strieker, 
" Lehre von den Geweben," Bd. II. 

essential organs, since taste is also produced by exciting such fungi- 
form papillae as lack taste-buds. f 

In children, all parts of the tongue and even the mucous mem- 
brane linings of the cheeks are sensitive to taste stimulation; in 
adults, the cheek linings and the middle part of the tongue are 
completely insensitive. Different parts of the tongue are sensi- 
tive to different stimuli — in general, the back of the tongue to 
bitter, the tip to sweet, and the borders of the middle part to sour. 
The insensitive areas differ for different stimuli as the accompany- 
ing figure representing the work of one investigator indicates. It 

* Excitations of the taste end-organs are carried to the hemispheres from 
the back part of the tongue and from the throat by the glosso-pharyngeal 
nerve; from the forward two-thirds of the tongue by the lingual part of the 
fifth and by the seventh nerve. (For discussion of the respective functions 
of the lingual and the seventh nerves, cf. Howell, "Text-book of Physiology," 
p. 270; Nagel, in " Handbuch der Physiologie der Menschen," III., pp. 
624 ff. ; and Foster, "A Text-book of Physiology," one- volume edition, 1895, 
p. 1036.) 

t Cf. Nagel, op. ciL, p. 624. 



47-48] 



Appendix, Section III., §25 



323 




is important also to know that a given papilla may be sensitive to 

several stimuli as well as to one.* This fact, taken in connection 

with the phenomena of ageusia, or loss of taste, indicate that the 

taste-buds (or other taste end-organs, if there 

be such) are differentiated to respond, some 

to one stimulus, some to another; and that 

they are distributed in varied proportions in 

the different regions of tongue and of palate. 

The cerebral centre of 'taste is probably in 

the median temporal lobe. 

Bibliography. — On sensations of smell: 

Zwaardemaker, Die Physiologie des Geruchs, fig. 21. ^ Schematic 

1895. W. Nagel, Der Geruchsinn, in Nagel's diagram of the surface of 

Handbuch der Physiologie der Menschen, Bd. the tongue. The area 

III., 1905. E. Aronsohn, Zur Physiologie des ^^^^°^.^ded by-— -was 

r- n? • 7 • 00 msensitive, m the case 

Geruchs, Archtv fur Physiologie, 1884, pp. tested, to sweet ; that sur- 

163 ff. ; Experimentelle Untersuchungen, usw., rounded by o o o was in- 

ihid., 1886, pp. 32 ff. E. A. McC. Gamble, sensitive to sour; that 

The Applicability of Weber's Law to Smell, surrounded by . . . was 

A . T J X T) 7 J -V 00 insensitive to bitter: that 

American Journal of Psychology. X., 1898, pp. , 1 , 

-' -' ^-'^ ' y ■) xrr surrounded by was 

82 ff.; and The Physical and Physiological insensitive to salt. The 
Conditions of Smell, in M. W. Calkins, An In 
troduction to Psychology, pp. 480-482. 

On sensations of taste: W. Nagel, Der ^^^^el, op. cit., Fig. 114 
Geschmacksinn, in Nagel's Handbuch (cited 

above), Bd. III. F. Kiesow, Beitrage zur physiologischen Psychologie 
des Geschmacksinnes, Wundt's Philosophische Studien, X. and XII. 
C. S. Myers, The Taste-names of Primitive People, British Journal 
of Psychology, 1904, I., pp. 117 ff.; G. T. W. Patrick, American Journal 
of Psychology, 1899, PP- ^^o ff. H. Zwaardemaker, Geschmack, in 
K. Asher und Spiro's Ergehnisse der Physiologie, II., ii., 1903. 

* Cf. summaries of Oehrwall's experiments by Howell, op. cit., p. 273, 
and Nagel, op. cit., p. 642. For experiments, cf. Sanford, 53; Titchener; 
§ 24. 



shaded area was entirely 
insensitive. From W. 



324 



Supplement to Chapter III. 
d. Cutaneous Sense-organs 



[Pages 



§ 26. The lowest forms of animals respond to mechanical and 
thermal stimulation; and all other sense-organs (save the retina) 




Igm gs 



• CP 



.At 



Fig. 22. — Semi-schematic section of the skin of the pulp of the fingers. Sp, 
papillary layer of the skin ; Sr, reticular layer of the skin ; za, fat ; cM, Meiss- 
ner's corpuscles ; cP, transverse sections of Pacinian corpuscles ; ON, Ruffini's 
endings; At, arteriole; gs, sudoriparous glands. From L. F. Barker, "The 
Nervous System and its Constituent Neurones," Fig. 245 (after Ruffini). 



51-52] Appendix, Section III., § 27 325 

have been developed from differentiated structures in the skin. 
The uncritical observer thinks of the skin as 'organ' of contact, 
of temperature, and of pain sensations ; but the skin — besides 
serving as excretory organ — merely contains and protects the 
minute organs affected by the external physical stimulus. The 
most important of these organs are: (i) Hair-bulbs, from which 
project the fine hairs which transmit any movement with accel- 
erated force. (2) Tactile corpuscles (Meissner 's) , found chiefly 
in the papillae of the dermis of hand and of foot. (3) Touch 
cells (MerkePs) 'of the same essential structure,' but receiving only 
one nerve-fibre each, distributed all over 
the skin. (4) Pacinian corpuscles widely 
distributed in the skin, the periosteum of 
the bone, the covering of the viscera, the 
muscles, and the tendons. (4) Articular 
end-bulbs, found on joint surfaces. (5) 
The so-called end-bulbs of Krause, found 
in tendons, cross-striated muscles, outer 
skin, cornea, and lining of the mouth. 
(6) The endings of Ruffini, cylindrically^ 
shaped, deep-lying bodies. 

§ 27. The specific functions of these ^ "*^ 

,.„ . , , Fig. 23. — A dermic pa- 

dmerent structures are not certamly known, piua containing tactile cor- 

There is, however, much plausibility in the puscie (Meissner's). From 

hypothesis of Van Frey that both the hair- ^■^•f^'}'''^ "The Human 

•'^ ■^ Body," F]g. 152. 

cells and the Meissner corpuscles are or- 
gans of pressure sensation due to stimulation of the skin. For 
the hairy parts of the skin are especially sensitive to pressure; 
and one or more pressure spots are almost always found near the 
place where each hair leaves the skin. On the hairless surfaces 
(which however are few and of small extent) the corpuscles of 
Meissner correspond fairly well in number with the actually dis- 
covered pressure-spots. Furthermore, with the exception of the 
hair-cells and the Meissner corpuscles, no end-organs occur in 
numbers at all equal to those of the pressure-spots of any given 
locality. 




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by detailed and specific references to available texts. The last chapter 
of the book summarizes contemporary systems and tendencies. 

Cloth, 8vo, $2.^0. 

By ARTHUR KENYON ROGERS 

A Student's History of Philosophy 

"A distinctive mark of Professor Rogers's book is that it is readable. 
Nobody can say as much honestly of the larger histories of philosophy. 
. . . But Rogers is right good reading." — School. 

" Professor Rogers brings to the handling of philosophical problems and 
systems a profound and sympathetic mind; his exposition, except where 
he is cramped by limitations of space, is invariably luminous and fair; 
he possesses in a remarkable degree the gift of bringing metaphysical 
questions home to 'men's business and bosoms'; and it may be safely 
predicted that his book will lead many a reader past the presentation 
of them to the masters themselves — and this, no doubt, is what he 
desires." — The Scotsman, Edinburgh. 

Of the first edition Professor Elias Compton, of Wooster University, 

wrote : 
"It is a college text-book which, in my opinion, combines more merits 
than any of its predecessors in the same field. ... I have adopted the 
work as a text-book for my class of seniors in the history of philosophy, 
and. recommend it to the general reader who desires a readable book 
that will give a just, generous, and definite knowledge of the subject." 

Cloth, 8vo, $2.00 net. 

By JAMES EDWIN CREIGHTON 



An Introductory Logic 



A presentation of the fundamental ideas of philosophy from both the 
practical and theoretical side. The author is Professor of Logic and 
Metaphysics in Cornell University. 

Cloth, i2mo, $1.40 net. 



PUBLISHED BY 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

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